I Will Always Choose You
by maya295
Summary: Season 8 Huddy: After Chase got stabbed in "Nobody's Fault," House decides to find Cuddy because no matter what happened, he will always choose her... But, what if she doesn't want to let him back into her life? - COMPLETE
1. Chapter 1

Hi everyone!

Here I am, back with a new story. One that I've started writing a very long time ago. Actually, I first wrote it (the beginning of that first chapter and bits of others parts) almost a year ago, when season 8 wasn't even finished.

That's the reason why this fanfic is not really a post series finale fiction. I just can't write about that, I'm sorry. Writing something that is post "Moving On" is already a huge challenge for me, because for a very long time, I've considered (and maybe still do) that what TPTB did to the show, House (and I mean, not only Huddy) was simply irreparable. Then, they wrote season 8 and I thought, well, if TPTB doesn't even care, why would it be a problem? After all, everything seemed possible in their world, especially with the second half of season 8, where Chase miraculously walks again, merely two weeks after almost dying, Dominika comes back, rich like Croesus, only from selling knishes out of a VAN in Atlantic city! Wilson, _an oncologist_, gets a treatable cancer, but refuses to get chemo and House, a guy with a missing chunk of MUSCLE in his thigh, manages to fake his death by escaping a building on fire, running to the back door, while it crashes and explodes in pieces. So yeah, I kinda thought, wow, maybe writing about House and Cuddy finding each other again is not that crazy if TPTB thinks it's ok to throw that kind of storylines at us and selling them as perfectly plausible options…

Dealing with House's faked death, Wilson dying of cancer and Dominika still being "the wife" is beyond my bestestest good-wills, though. So, that story won't start after "Everybody Dies." Actually, since I first started to write it around the time when they aired "Nobody's Fault," I've decided to stick to my initial plan. So there is NO sick, dying Wilson in it, NO fake dead House and, to some extent, NO Dominika _House_, even if, for the story's purpose, she will appear at some point. You've been warned…

**Disclaimer**: I sincerely think that two adults are perfectly capable of dealing with a relationship in a mature, albeit romantic way, instead of cheating and lying, or emotionally blackmailing each other like bitchy, whimsical kids so I'm obviously not affiliated with the show.

Now on to the story! :)

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**** I WILL ALWAYS CHOOSE YOU ****

_I spent a year in prison. To pay my debt to society, as they say. As if it could have changed anything…_

_If it had been my call, I'd have spent the rest of my miserable life there. What else did I deserve? What else was left for me? I had lost everything: my friends, my work, my girl… I'd screwed up but then, I _**am** _screwed-up. It's not like people could expect anything else from me. I've ruined all my chances. I wondered many times if I really had ones anyway. Was part of all this written? Was I not destined to end up like that, in a way?_

_When I was there, I was beaten, I was debased, and I was ignored. I was ordinary. Ordinary and miserable. Nobody pitied me because nobody gave a fuck about me. I was a number, a casualty, another misfit whose mistakes society had to pay for. But I didn't care. Time helped of course. After several months of that same routine, day after day, I could almost not see your face anymore. I could almost not remember why I once felt that much rage to have lost you. Remorse? I don't even know what that is. Maybe because I'm too familiar with regretting every single thing I do only when it's too late. So remorse, no, that's a luxury I really couldn't afford my mind to be drowned into. But _**I knew**_. I knew the cost of what I'd done and every implication it had. Better than anyone would ever be able to see. Better than anyone would ever be able to _**make** **me** _see. So why would I have let them tell me how I should have felt? When they didn't know. When they didn't feel it themselves. Knowing the price to pay for what I'd done, from the very moment I'd stepped out of my car that afternoon was enough. I knew, right then, that I'd never be able to erase that. Because that meant losing you. For good. And that was the real punishment. _**That**_ , was worse than being sentenced to a lifetime in Hell. _

_I spent a year in prison and I would have been okay with spending another one there. And another one after that. And again, until the day when they'd have found me dead in my cell. Of overdose, of cirrhosis, of cancer, of infection. _

_I didn't care._

_But then, there was medicine. Mystery. Sick people to save. I am not a philanthropic man. The lives I saved in all those years didn't mean a thing to me. But beating fate did. Congress men, devoted parents, religious people, heartless murderers, they didn't make a difference to me. What interested me was to know, when no one else did. That power, nothing can beat it. So I gave in to it again, because it was stronger than me, stronger than my will, stronger than the pain I'd rather have inflicted to myself. _

_And, in a way, it saved me._

_Foreman got me out of jail. I didn't ask him anything. I'm not sure I really wanted that. But he got me out of prison and he put me back to where I didn't belong anymore. I'd lost my team. I'd lost my department. I'd lost the little respect I had from my peers. Why did I say yes? I can't say. But, even though I didn't know it at that time, somehow, it was the first step. _

_The one that would lead me back to you. _

_At first, everything felt surreal. Even Wilson punching me in the face wasn't enough to wake me up from that new surreal PPTH, where baby doctors with mom and dad problems became part of my team without me having a say about it. Foreman being the Dean was the least shocking news. I had kinda deduced that from the way he'd looked at me when he'd visited me in prison. If it were possible, the smugness on his face had raised up another notch when he'd told me he was the one that had the power to release me from prison. Foreman. Could I blame him? Not really. He'd probably done what anyone in the same circumstances would have: he'd seized an opportunity when it had presented itself to him. I couldn't pretend he wasn't worthy of the title, even though I disapproved of it. After all, I'd been the one training him all those years, so I knew what kind of a doctor he was. Administratively though, I wondered whom, among the Board, could have considered he'd be able to deal with that kind of responsibility. But then again, he didn't have to deal with me when he got promoted, so maybe the job was not that much of a challenge by then... _

_Foreman's office, _**your**_ office, was like a nightmare in 3D. The first time I stepped in it, I felt the immense void. And it wasn't because of the total lack of furniture, no. What I felt was your absence. It made me crave your presence even more. Excruciatingly. So I locked myself in. I pretended I cared about rebuilding a functioning team for my department and I hired that girl I'd met in the prison's infirmary. Then I stalked Thirteen, because that's what I do, and I convinced her to come back, too. She didn't stay, though, because I sent her away. I made it look like a grand gesture. I told her she'd be better off without me. Or maybe, I didn't want to watch her die, experience another loss. Thirteen left and then Taub and Chase joined in. _

_And so we functioned, indeed, for a while. I mean, we solved cases. Did I enjoy it? At least, I made sure everyone thought I did. But the truth was, I felt nothing. Oh, but I still smiled! And I quibbled over my team's suggestions, I argued against their better judgments, like I always do, and it saved lives. But there was no excitement. I felt numb. I felt as if I were where I shouldn't be. All this time, I felt like an outsider in my own life, like I was out of place, undeserving. You could say I was not really happy, in a way, but when was I, anyway? Except when I was with you. For those blissful, fleeting, almost surreal months during which you let me love you. But there was no "you" anymore in my life. Just a void. Materialized by a colorless, empty office where someone else was seated in your chair. And none of the patients' files I read held my attention long enough for me to forget it. Day, after day, after day. So, I was not happy. But worse… I was not __**un**__happy, either._

_I just felt nothing._

_It went on for a few months. Me and my team, the newbies and the senior ones, we found our tempo, somehow. I kept teasing Taub and that Asian, awkward girl because, well, that was just too easy. I challenged Chase, while openly favoring him because, medically, I'd always considered him like "my prodigal son" and, even though I'd have never admitted it, he kinda made me proud. I made inappropriate, sexual jokes with the young, beautiful one, just to upset her. I really managed to put up a good face. The great pretender! How easy it was. It wasn't even rewarding, in fact. And then, I had a wakeup call…_

_Chase got stabbed._

_He almost died. He could have ended up being paraplegic and… it was my fault. That's not what I told the man that was sent to investigate the case, of course. By that time, mind you, I had stopped thinking that prison was my best option. Prison is a __**real **__cage and… I've built enough metaphorical bars around me to feel imprisoned already. I realized I've had enough cages for a lifetime. But that was not really a revelation, was it? What hit me, however, was that I got away with it and nobody flinched. And, like that, the numbness was gone. Where there was nothing before, suddenly there was you, in my every thought, every second of every day. I kept thinking: _**you**_… you'd have never let that happen. You'd have yelled. You'd have challenged my medical judgment. You'd have said 'no.' Of course, you'd have protected me, too, you'd have covered my ass, but… unlike Foreman, eventually, you'd have done it for me, not for yourself solely. _

_When the guy declared it was nobody's fault, I protested. I accused him of being a coward and it was like a stupid outburst, but I understood something that day. I understood you. What you kept telling me about how you felt, I felt it too. _

_You never made me a crappy doctor. _

_How wrong I was to tell you that. And I'm sorry, I'm sorry I said it, and burdened you with that awful lie like it was your fault, or like you should have been the one feeling guilty. Because, you'd done nothing wrong. On the contrary, what happened when Foreman closed his eyes on my reckless attitude that pushed Chase to be even more reckless and got him stabbed __**was**__ me being a crappy doctor. I was inhuman then, arrogant, and stupid. I was not a man, nor was I responsible. I was that guy, genius guy maybe, but with a God complex, who thought he was above the rules. But you? You'd have never let that happen. Because that never was what you'd have wanted for me. You made me human. For a long time, I fought that feeling because it scared the hell out of me but, the truth is, I was a better man when I was with you._

_You kept me grounded. No, I was not a crappy doctor when I was with you. I was just a man, in love, with different priorities and different needs. Needs I was not used to dealing with anymore. Priorities, I hadn't had in my life for so long. And it overwhelmed me. I was holding it, in my hands, and yet… I just couldn't figure out what to do with it. But I had it. Happiness. I had it, because of __**you**__._

_And I ruined it._

_So, when I visited Chase in that hospital room, I understood. And, inexorably, it became obvious again, like the most inescapable evidence: I need you in my life. Not just because I need your touch, or your body, physically. I do, though, need that so much, too. But, what I need the most is the whole you: your smile, your care, your wit. The way you challenge me. The way you set boundaries. The way you dare to tell me I'm wrong when nobody else does. I need _**you**_. Yes, I was wrong in every way possible to tell you that you made me a crappy doctor, but there is one thing, ONE thing, that I was right to say to you because I've never told any truth more honest and blunt than that one in my entire life._

_**I will always choose you.**_

_After Chase got stabbed, and I realized all those things about me, and what kind of a man I really wanted to be, that thought started haunting me like a ghost. I had to find you. I had to see you. Until that day, I'd never really tried because I thought it was pointless. Life is ironic, isn't it? All this time, I've always known, but I never dared. The coward, that was me, actually. But that day, I stopped having doubts. I stopped being afraid of the consequences. Or, more precisely, I stopped caring about the consequences. You can't get anything if you don't try… And I wanted you back. How? I had no idea. But I knew for sure that if I didn't get to you, to try and make it happen, I'd never be able to look myself in a mirror again. I would never be able to stand my cowardice. And I will never have another chance at being just a man, and not that genius guy with a God complex I'd started to despise so much._

_You need to know that Wilson didn't betray you. I knew you and him were probably still in touch. I hated that he never once admitted it, never gave me a hint of your new existence, out there, somewhere, but I guess he genuinely thought it was for the best. I asked him, of course, to tell me where to find you and when I did, he didn't even act surprised. He surely knew that day would come. But, he said he couldn't do that to you all the same. That it was not up to him to decide. He said I should forget about you, move on. Forget about you? When I'd just started becoming hopeful again? No way! So I stalked you. I spent hours on the Internet trying to find you, find a clue, the name of a city, a state, a phone number, an address. But I found nothing. I panicked. I realized that the world is a huge place and that maybe, you'd left the country… _

_What if you'd left the country? _

_But no. You would never have left your family. You'd never have given up on your job. Your job… I tried to think like you. I tried to imagine your reactions after I turned your life upside down. You would have probably avoided being a Dean again. Not that I left you with many options, anyway. Those positions are greatly prized, and there're not many of them. And I'd taken that away from you. But you're a doctor. And that, at least, I hadn't destroyed…._

_I found you when I finally put together the pieces of the puzzle that you'd left for me to solve. The first one that really kept me focused, determined and strangely eager to decipher for the first time in months. I saw your name listed in an article about an upcoming symposium on Fertiity C.A.R.E hosted by Penn Fertility Center in Philadelphia. When I read that you were working there, as an Infertility and Reproductive Endocrinologist, I got dizzy just thinking that, all this time, you'd been living just merely an hour away from me. And when I read that you were also Chief of the Women's Health Clinical Research Center, I smiled. And I felt… I don't know, proud. I'd always admired you for that, that ability you have to care for people's fate, and how you've always wanted to be a part of what could make a difference, as much as you could. It all made sense, after all, that you'd decided to promote your specialty in a way that mattered to you. Because of what you'd gone through yourself, before you adopted Rachel. _

_The conference was scheduled only two weeks later. Two weeks. That's all I had to put myself together and hope, beyond hope, that you would let me talk to you…_

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**A/N**

I just want to add that this fanfiction is NOT going to be a quiet, fluffy ride. However, as evidenced by its title, it IS, most definitely going to be Huddy. But, to some of you, at some point during the story, it might feel painful, harsh, and maybe cruel toward one of your favorite characters, whether you root for House, or for Cuddy. Thing is, I didn't write that story to try and solve everything by waving a magic wand. It WILL, somehow, be painful and harsh, and cruel because, there were things I'd have liked House and Cuddy to address, so maybe I've thrown a little of my anger in it to tackle the subjects that never got a chance to be tackled after LE left. If you reach a point in the story, where you start thinking it becomes too unfair, too mean, or too inconsiderate for your taste then, you are free not to read further. But if you still want to give it a chance, even when you feel doubtful and angry, too, sometimes, just focus on the TITLE and have faith… :)

One last, little thing: I've mixed several writing styles in this story. In some chapters, the narrative will be told in the first person, from House's OR Cuddy's point of view (those chapters, like this first one, will be in ITALIC). In others, it will be written like a classical fanfic, from an outside point of view. This choice is deliberate. I hope it won't be too unsettling. I've tried to cut the chapters so that there'll always be only ONE style at a time in the same part. I hope it'll help…

If you've liked it so far, I hope you'll share a little of your thoughts with me! Thanks for reading.

Have a nice day ~ maya


	2. Chapter 2

_Hi guys!_

_Thank you to everyone that has stopped by and read this story, so far. Even warmer, and most grateful, thanks to everyone that left me a review. Feedbacks are a writer's fuel. So thank you for giving me the energy I need to carry on!_

_Just a little clarification, because I may have misled some of you into thinking this will be an epic story. It won't. I'm not sure yet how many chapters there're gonna be, but I think it's not gonna be more than 10 or maybe 12. Maybe even less than 10… _

_Now on to chapter 2… And to quote a sexy, talented lady "Hold on to your safety blanket" :)_

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_**** I Will Always Choose You ****_

_**- Chapter 2 -**_

She is standing on the podium, in front of a standalone lectern that almost swallows her entire petite frame. She keeps tucking a strand of her curly hair behind her ear, a gesture she's used to doing when she's stressed. She doesn't really look down at her notes, though. If she is nervous, and knowing her, House has no doubt that she is, she doesn't let it show. Her voice is steady and her smile confident. She gives quick glances at the audience from time to time, catching people's eyes with that self-confident gaze of hers. She's a little bit thinner than he remembers, but then, he's always fantasized about her luscious curves and how it felt when he could put the palm of his hands around them so maybe this is only him confusing a blurred memory that he has of her with reality.

He doesn't really listen to what she's saying, but he _hears_ her. Her voice. How he's missed her voice! Low, throaty and sensual. At some point, she says something that is meant to be ironic, or funny, and the people in the audience start laughing. He observes her reaction when they do: she looks down at her notes, and gives that perfectly faked, shy smile, as if she didn't expect that exact reaction, at that exact moment. But he knows she did. She squares her shoulders, sticks out her chest a little bit more and she looks up again. He sees the pride in her eyes and he feels it, too. She laughs with beautiful restraint and his heart swells. She looks in charge. She looks accomplished. She looks… fine. Maybe it is that last admission that gives him the greatest relief. It's undeniably selfish, but he can't help it. When he came here today, knowing that she would be there, knowing that he would finally see her, after almost two years, he suddenly realized that he hadn't considered the unimaginable, yet plausible possibility that she could be a mess. That's what she most certainly was when he'd left her, standing on a pile of rubble in the middle of her dining room. After all, that's what he'd done to her. But, if she had been anything other than that amazingly beautiful woman, totally radiant, and perfectly in control of her emotions, he would have never been able to forgive himself. Yes, it's very selfish, but he needed to see that she was ok. That she'd survived the maelstrom he'd thrown her life into.

The lecture room is almost full. House has found a seat near a dark corner, in the last row. From where he sits, hunched against the backrest, there's very little chance that she can spot him in the audience, but he's still been careful enough to make it even less probable by putting a baseball cap on his head, and a pair of ugly, fake reading glasses. Just in case. He doesn't want to risk her seeing him just now. That, he saves for later. When it'll be just the two of them. Because he has a plan.

For now, he only relishes the sight of her, almost secretly, drinking her in and feeling oddly blessed to have the chance to enjoy that stolen moment, while knowing that he can't be seen. The pain in his thigh ranks from excruciating to unbearable but, other than clutching his fingers around the missing chunk of muscles on his lap, more by reflex than for any kind of useful purposes, his mind manages not to focus on it too much. And she is the one doing that to him. She makes him forget about his pain. Or, more precisely, she makes it less prominent.

Applause suddenly burst out in the room and it makes him jump slightly in his seat when he understands that her presentation is over. He watches her gather her notes, as she smiles broadly. Only he could decipher the subtle differences of meaning amongst the wide range of her smiles. He knows every one of them, and its significance, by heart. That one says 'relief' more than anything else and he can't help smiling, too, because he knows what kind of relief this is. He pictures her, working during endless hours, to make sure that her presentation is going to be irreproachable, just as she wants it and, judging by the warm, and lasting round of applause she's receiving right now, he can tell she's succeeded. She's gotten what she wanted. Yes, she doesn't smile with relief because her presentation is over. She smiles with relief because she's achieved her goal: she's delivered _the _perfect presentation.

A few, young people in the audience – students, he assumes – get up and start surrounding her on the podium, already showering her with questions, compliments and comments filled with envious admiration. That's the moment he chooses to leave the room through the back door, discreetly, but not without sending her one last, longing stare, just to imprint her image in his mind one more time before he goes away, to give him the courage to wait for her like he's decided to do until she's finished her day.

Unnoticed, walking among the busy crowd of nurses and doctors going about their day in the fertility C.A.R.E, he takes the elevator down to the parking garage. There, he's already parked his bike in an empty spot near a concrete pillar. That's where he waits, leaned against the cold material, oblivious of the throbbing pain in his leg. For several hours at a stretch, the place remains completely deserted and he waits there, in complete silent. Sometimes, he sits on the floor to try and alleviate the pain a little, but when the first sound of footsteps start resonating into space in the early hours of the evening, as the first group of employees join their cars to leave, he promptly gets up and hides behind the pillar not to be spotted, he, a total stranger in this place.

The parking lot is now almost empty except for that one, black SUV parked only two spaces away from his bike. He smiles at the coincidence, and even clings to it as a sort of fateful, albeit childish and stupid, sign that they are meant to be close, no matter what his odds are… He knew she'd be the last one to leave. He grins, content and hopeful, as he acknowledges that some things never change. Another sign of fate? That's what he wants to believe. A quick glance at his watch indicates him it's almost seven thirty when he hears the clicking sound of high-heels approaching toward him. He doesn't even try to catch a glance of her silhouette, even though he's dying to, because he doesn't need to see to be absolutely sure that it's, indeed, her. He's recognized her walking tempo within the first steps: determined, with a slight off beat that betrays the sexy hip sway. He smiles and closes his eyes, to call back the last image that he's captured of her in that lecture room: smiling, confident and glowing. Still hidden behind the pillar, he listens to her coming closer and closer, when suddenly, the sound stops, indicating that she's come to an abrupt halt. From where he stands, he can see her car and, as she's not in sight anywhere near it, he instantly deduces that she's probably frozen right on the spot because she must have recognized his bike.

He pushes himself off of the wall with his palms, and slowly walks around the pillar.

"Nice speech you gave today, Dr Cuddy," he says, a warm smile on his lips, while simultaneously appearing in front of her.

Upon seeing him, she screams and instantly covers her mouth with her hand to muffle the sound, as if it surprised even her to hear it echo into space. All he can see then is her eyes, wide with shock, as she stands paralyzed only a few feet away from him.

Seeing her so livid and panicked when he's witnessed her so assertive, radiant and yes, happy, in that lecture room only hours ago, is a contrast so violent that it makes him tremble on his feet. Obviously, he wasn't prepared to see her react like that. Not that he expected her to run into his arms, grateful that he'd finally come to her – he's not that stupid – but, at least… at least he'd have thought that she'd be more serene, just like he's been trying to persuade himself to be, telling himself over and over that everything would unravel nicely, eventually. But now, now he's not so sure anymore and the next thing he knows, he sees her plunge her hand inside her purse, where she fishes out her cellphone. He watches, awestruck, as she dials a number but her fingers tremble so much that the cell phone slips out of her hand and falls on the floor, bouncing a couple times until it stops right at his feet. He leans down to pick it up and shoots a quick glance at the screen, a bitter smirk appearing on his face when he sees the caller id. And just like that, in spite of him, hurt takes over and, before he can stop the words from slipping through his lips he hears himself saying them out loud.

"911? Really? Don't you think it's a little premature? I only came here with my bike and, I don't even know your home address," he lashes out, hanging up before the call gets through.

When he registers the shock on her face, he instantly regrets what he said. But, it's too late and he can see the hurt on her face, and the anger, too, contorting her beautiful features.

"I'm, I'm sorry," he stammers, feeling ashamed. "That's not what I…"

"Give me my phone back," she interrupts, not coming closer but putting out a shaking hand in his direction.

She's afraid. He can see it. And, more than her obvious, contained anger, that's something he finds utterly unbearable, because that's the last feeling he wanted to trigger in her. He hates himself in that very second and he wishes the ground could swallow him and make him disappear but, he's come all the way to her, _to find her_, because he needed to tell her how he felt and, as hard and almost impossible as it seems already, he has to do it. If not to appease her, like he thought it would, at least to appease _him_. Because he's tired of that sour, acid taste he constantly feels in the back of his throat that makes him wants to puke most of the time, and has, for the past 20 months since that day. He has to get that crushing burden off of his chest.

"Not until you've heard what I have to say," he tells her, with a much calmer, almost pleading voice.

"I don't care what you have to say. I don't want to hear it."

"I'm not asking you to _care_, just… give me a chance to say it. That's all. Please. I just need to say it."

She takes a long, wobbling breath and swallows back the lump in her throat. Then, she gives a quick, scanning glance around her.

"Yes, we're alone," he confirms, guessing that she's probably trying to find if there's someone else in the parking garage with them, that she could call for help if she needs to. It crushes him to see her do that. "I'm not gonna hurt you, Cuddy," he adds, with his most reassuring voice. "Look at me." She puffs and jerks her head in his direction, her lips set firmly, surely to prevent them from trembling. "I just came here to talk. I just…" He sighs, feeling helpless, feeling like his whole life is hanging to a thread and that _she_ is that thread, fragile, so slim and uncertain. "I. Am. _Not_. Going. To. Hurt. You," he repeats, his voice barely above a whisper, as if he were afraid to scare a wild animal away, or afraid of its unpredictable reaction.

Silence, deafening silence, settles between them for a while.

Cuddy studies him, cautiously keeping her distance and he lets her stare at him, heedful not to make any move, and patiently waiting for her to see that he has, indeed, no intention to harm her. As painful and pride-wounding as it is, to feel assessed, dissected, and thoroughly examined while not knowing what she's thinking, he has no other choice but to wait and, ticking second after ticking second, he can finally see that she's unwinding a little. Her hands have stopped shaking and she straightens up, raising her chin up.

"How did you find me?" She finally asks, recovering her poise a little.

"There was an article about that conference in a medical review," he explains, tentatively. "Your name was mentioned…"

"_Why_?"

"I got out of prison."

"I can see," she spits, bitterly.

"Six months ago," he clarifies.

"So what?" She gulps nervously, and narrows her eyes at him. Visibly, she's not following his train of thoughts and it unnerves her.

"I'm back working at PPTH. Foreman hired me."

"So I've heard."

Her eyes are fixated on his hand, the one that holds her cellphone and he realizes that, as long as he keeps it in his hand, she will stay. She will listen to him. Maybe because he gives her no other choice, but that's his only option so he clutches his fingers around the phone tighter and takes a small step toward her. Instantly, she takes a huge one back, and he hears her breathing accelerate noticeably.

He gulps and closes his eyes for a split second, unable to look at her, unable to look at what his presence is doing to her.

"Don't do this," he pleads.

She doesn't say anything but sends him a quizzical look.

"Don't be scared of me. I… I can't stand it, Cuddy."

As if he'd poked her pride, she instantly clenches her jaws, and squares her shoulders before staring at him, defiantly. To prove to him that she is determined not to let him get at her this time.

"What I did to you that day…" he starts, hesitant, "was horrible, and inexcusable but… I saw you today in the lecture room."

She shivers slightly upon hearing him confess that he was there while she gave her speech earlier.

"You did good. I mean, what you're doing now, your position, your title. Everything you achieved over the past two years tells me you managed to get over it-"

"Did I have a choice?" she huffs.

"I guess not, and I'm…" he looks down, searching for the right word, not knowing if he can allow himself to say it because honesty has never been his strong suit and it's always terrified him to speak his mind and bare his true feelings in front of anyone. And in front of her, even more. But, that's what he came here for: to be honest, and blunt. No matter the consequences…

"I'm… relieved," he finally confesses, his head still down.

"Relieved?" he hears her repeat, astonishment registering in her voice. "You're telling me that you are _relieved_ to see that I managed to put my life together after what you did to me? Coz what? You'd rather I was on anti-depressants, unemployed and feeling miserable? Is that _why_ you did that to me? To ruin my life like you think I'd ruined yours?"

Her voice is fuming with contained rage and he looks up to meet her gaze. Her usually light grey eyes have darkened with anger and they're throwing daggers at him.

"No, no!" he protests, shaking his head. "Of course not! I…"

"What? You _what_?"

"Remember when you asked me how I felt that day in the hospital?"

She looks at him with a gaze that says she will, indeed, never forget that fateful day.

"I told you I was hurt."

"Yes, and then you had to make it even," she hisses through clenched teeth, and her words echo into space like the crack of a whip.

"I lied," he carries on, indifferent to her barb.

"Big news," she puffs, shaking her head.

"Truth is, I wasn't hurt. Hurt didn't even come close to what I was feeling then."

She freezes and her mouth falls agape.

"I was… torn apart. I was worse than broken. When you left me? You shredded me into pieces, Cuddy. You took every little bit of hope you'd given me that made me feel alive away from me. I lost interest in everything. Medicine, and all those puzzles I was obsessed with, nothing was distracting enough. Nothing mattered anymore. Nothing excited me. Nothing was…" His voice breaks and he stops, staring intensely at her, tears welling up in his eyes. "I lost it, I know. What I did was… unforgettable and reckless and horrible but, I want you to know that there is not _one_ day that goes by without me waking up and thinking about that day. About what I did-"

"That makes two of us."

"When I open my eyes in the morning, there's always that split second during which my brain is still foggy enough to think that this horrible thing never happened. But then… it's here again. In the air, everywhere around me. It haunts me. And you want to know what's ironic? That split millisecond during which I believe I didn't do that to you, that's the _only moment_ when I can stand myself… And I'd give anything, _anything, _to change that and make that moment last beyond just a fucking useless second because, then, it'd mean I'm not _that_ guy-"

"So, that's it? That's what you wanted to tell me?" she asks, her voice icily cold.

He looks at her, with red-rimmed eyes, incapable of saying a word.

"Good," she says, when he remains silent. "You talked. You said what you had to say. Now it's over. I want my phone back. And I want you to get out of my life. Definitely."

She takes a step forward and this time, he's the one stepping back.

"Wait!" he exclaims, tightening his grip around her cellphone. "I'm not finished."

"What makes you think that I _care_? I've heard enough of your self-loathing little spiel. It's late. I need to go home."

"Rachel," he whispers, almost to himself.

"Don't you mention her," she warns.

"Cuddy… please… listen to me." She stares at him, immobile and silent, and he takes a deep breath, to gather up some courage. "What I meant before, when I said I was relieved is that… you made it. In spite of what I've done. You're doing something you love. And you're obviously a respected member in the medical community. You… made it."

"And I should what? _Thank_ you? Geez, I can't believe the nerves you-"

"You won. Don't you see it? I know you, Cuddy. You loved being a Dean, sure, but what you're doing now is what you were always made for. You're helping people. You're taking care of them. Your peers love you. Patients love you. But me? I'm alone. Nobody needs me. I came back to PPTH and I was bored. I'm supposed to be doing what I'm good at but I don't care. I don't care about my patients. I don't care if the case is solved. I'm free and yet, it feels like I'm still in jail." He's staring intensely at her and he can see something has changed in her gaze. It's imperceptible but it's there.

She takes a deep breath and averts her eyes for a second. He can see them glisten under the neon lights. When she turns her head back to look at him, it's gone. But he _saw_ it. Maybe she cares. And he wants to hang to the crazy hope that she does so much….

"If it can make you feel better," he says regretfully, "I'm more miserable now than-"

"Feel _better_?" she interrupts, harshly. "You think that I need to know _that_ to feel better? You think it's some kind of sick competition to get satisfaction from knowing whose going to make the other one more miserable?"

She's almost shouting now and he closes his eyes, as if stupidly hoping it would also close his ears and somehow block the sound before his brain can analyze what she's saying. He's screwing it up entirely. Again. He wanted to tell her so many things and he's incapable of conveying the slightest emotion in the right way. Still, they're there, buried inside of him and he can _feel _them. All of them. He always has. And he'd want to shout, too. Let them all out. He'd want her to know. He'd want things to be easy.

But when were things ever easy between them?

"No. That's not what I mean. I just want-"

"What do you want?" she says, sounding weary and tiresome.

He pauses to study her face for long, endless seconds that seem to stop the time between them.

"You," he confesses, his voice suddenly steadier, like he knew he was playing his last cards in that very instant. "I want _you_. I want to be in your life. I want you to be in mine. I want-"

Before he can finish his sentence, she falls into a fit of hysterical laughter.

"You can't have that," she says with a definite tone, when the outburst has died down. "You've lost the right to even consider that a possibility when you crashed your car into my home and turned my life upside down."

"I spent a year in prison for what I did. I paid my debt to society."

"And to me? You think it's as easy as just paying _a debt_?"

"I don't know. Tell me."

"I have nothing to tell."

"I was beaten in prison, you know."

"Good. Then my wishes have been granted," she says, her barb intentionally mean.

He sighs, looks away for a second, then back at her.

"Your wishes have been granted, yes. More than once, if you need to know."

"I don't _need_ to know that."

"But you're happy you do."

"No, I'm not. I don't get off on other's people misery, House. I'm not like you."

He gulps, and stares at her, stunned, as if she'd slapped him.

"I know. You're a good person and I'm… that heartless asshole."

"Yes," she blows, looking him right in the eyes.

"Yes, a lot of people, including you, think that I'm a heartless asshole but, what if they're wrong? What if I've changed?"

"People don't change."

"Yet, I did. I _know_ I did. How could I not after what I did to you? After what I had to go through after that?"

"Of course, because it's always about you!" She says, bitterly.

"It is. In a way it is. It is about me realizing what I've done. I had time to think, you know. A lot of time while I was in jail."

"And what? You miraculously found God?"

He smiles. Even in their worst moments, they've always had that: irony. Cyniscism. A golden thread of pretense to hold on to and find their way out of any kind of emotional commitment.

"No. Maybe they released me too soon," he jokes back, tentatively, testing her reaction.

She sucks on her lower lip as if she wanted to hide a smile. It gives him a sudden boost of courage to go on.

"I found out what I need," he confesses "And what I have to do to have it."

She stares challengingly at him, knowing perfectly where he's going but remaining stubbornly silent.

"I need _you_. I need you in my life, Cuddy. I should have told you that more often when I still had a chance. I should have told you how I felt."

"It's too late. I'm not interested in knowing that anymore."

"That's a lie. The way you're fighting with me right now tells me that you care."

"No. _That_ is a lie. Because I don't care. The words you say don't mean a thing to me."

"But yours do," he says sincerely.

"Why? Why does it matter to you anyway? What do you want from me?"

"I want you to forgive me Cuddy. That's all I want. Just… forgive me. Maybe not just now. But… I need to know that you're gonna try. That you will, eventually."

"I don't know."

"I… I forgave you after the infarction, I—"

"WHAT?"

"I mean," he says with a puff, and he can't help rolling his eyes skyward, as he's getting more and more unnerved by that dialogue of the deaf between them. "I'm not saying you were the only one _responsible_, but-"

"Don't you dare!" she yells, shocked beyond shock by his words. "How can you compare what you did to me to what happened that day? I saved _your life_. I fucking SAVED YOU! And you…"

Extenuated, on the verge of a nervous breakdown, overwhelmed by too many conflicting emotions she's tried to hold back unsuccessfully since the second she's spotted his bike in the parking lot, all her resistance suddenly melts away and she starts sobbing, uncontrollably.

"Cuddy," he whispers carefully, reaching out his hand to touch her face. "I'm sorry."

"Don't touch me!" she hiccups, taking a step back. "Don't you fucking come near me again, you hear me? I don't wanna see you. I don't wanna hear your excuses. I don't… Jesus, **WHY** are you even here?"

"I just… I needed to see you."

She heaves a few deep sighs. Somehow, it calms her down, enough to let the tears subside and her breaths to return to normal.

"Now you have. So go away," she says wearily. "Leave me alone."

"Ok," he finally yields, looking down at his feet.

"My phone."

He looks up and he sees that she's now standing closer to him than she ever has during their entire conversation. She holds out her hand, palm facing up, and she waits for him to give her the cellphone back. She's so beautiful and, because it's something that he cannot just erase, to make it go away, with the wave of a magical wand, he suddenly feels how much he still loves her, everywhere inside him. And it burns and it hurts and it grows from within his innermost parts. It is there, locked, squeezed and crushed, and it invades his lungs, blocking the air in his throat, and it commands to burst out, and he knows he won't be able to hold it back, even though it's probably irrelevant for her to know it. He just can't keep it buried inside him any longer.

"I never loved a woman the way that I loved you," he says sheepishly, almost as if ashamed of his confession.

"_Thank God_, you didn't!" she lashes out, making him feel like his words were the most disgusting insult he could have told her. "How dare you call _that_ love? Is that your definition of _love_, House? When you've hurt me more than anyone else ever has in my entire life? Do you have any idea how much it hurt, what you did to me? Do you have any idea how it _felt_?"

Her voice breaks again and her lips start trembling a little.

"I think I do," he whispers sorrowfully. "But… you can tell me if you want."

"NO!" She protests. "You know what? I won't! You don't have the right to know. I'm not going to give you that pleasure. It's over. You hear me, House? I am _over you_. And it's irrelevant, now. All of this, you, here… it's irrelevant."

"Can I… Will I…. see you again?"

She laughs derisively and shakes her head, appalled.

"No, you can't. And you won't. There's not going to be any more meetings between us. It's totally pointless. I don't want to see you again. You maybe think you need me, but _**I **_don't need you. I'm happy as I am. I'm happy _without you_."

"And I'm miserable without you," he murmurs.

"Go tell that to your wife," she spits disdainfully.

Before she can react, he grabs her by the wrist and put the cellphone inside the palm of her hand. She closes her fingers around it and twists her wrist inside his hand to try and slip from his grasp. But instead of releasing her, he tightens his grip and tugs her towards him. His face just an inch away from her face, he stares into her wide open eyes for what seems like an eternity. He can feel the warmth of her breath on his chin. And, he wants to kiss her so much it hurts.

"I couldn't care less about Dominika," he tells her instead. "She's not part of my life anymore. I love you, Cuddy. I love _you_."

He gradually relaxes his grasp around her wrist and as soon as she can, she swiftly yanks her hand away from him, immediately wrapping her other hand around her wrist and rubbing it in quick, circular movements. She takes a step back and glares at him with a mix of anger and sadness in her eyes. She doesn't say it but he knows what she thinks. She thinks he hasn't changed a bit since the day when he crashed his car into her home two years ago. She thinks he is _that kind_ of man. He can see it in her gaze.

"You happy now?" she hisses resentfully. "You came here thinking what? That I would fall back into your arms the minute I saw you? You think you saying how much you're sorry would be enough? That it was even a possibility? Well, listen to me very carefully: This is never going to happen. NEVER! Look at you! You can't even hold yourself together decently. You're a mess. And you're sweating. I guess it's time for you to take another one of your dose, am I right? So go ahead. Pop another pill. Go get high or whatever it is that you do, for all I care-"

"I'm clean," he interrupts her, as his hands start shaking a little. "I quit Vicodin. I'm still adjusting because it's only been two weeks but, I'm clean. I did it when I read about you in that medical review. I did it for you. Cuddy, I quit."

Her mouth widens in complete astonishment and she stares at him, stunned.

"Oh my God! Did you even listen to anything I've said? I don't care. You can quit. You can keep taking your pills. You can even take heroin if you want. I. Don't. CARE! I didn't ask you anything. And I don't want you to do anything _for me_. You didn't change, House. You're still as clueless as you've always been about relationships, or any kind of interactions involving another human being. If you want to quit drugs, then do it for YOURSELF! Stop thinking that you need me, or someone else to fix you. I can't fix you. I don't _want_ to. Not anymore. It's over. You, only, can decide what you want for yourself. But keep me out of it. And don't you come back here, ever again. Just so you know, first thing tomorrow morning, I'm gonna give your name to security and tell them you're _persona non grata_ in this hospital. But, don't make me call the police, House… Are we clear?"

He clutches his hand on his cane's handle so hard, his knuckles turn white. He gulps, feeling a huge lump tightening his throat and he blinks a few times, trying to prevent the tears from falling. Tears of shame, and embarrassment.

"Yes," he says, after a long, silent moment. "Perfectly clear."

She turns on her heel and strides to her car while he stays rooted to his spot and watches her open the door, then sit behind the steering wheel. She turns the engine on, and with a screeching sound, she drives off, passing just next to him, as he's still standing, dazed, on the side of the alley. It happens so fast that he can't really be sure, but he thinks he saw her burst into tears while she drove past him.

When the sound of her car has faded away, and silence has replaced the roaring sound of the engine, he scans the empty space around him. And suddenly, now that she's left him, brutally taking all his remaining hopes away from him, he realizes that standing alone in the middle of that cold, soulless parking garage matches what his life is condemned to become, almost terrifyingly.

Everything is just dark, grey, and shabby.

...

* * *

_**A/N**_

_I won't be able to write anything until Thursday, so I think I'll be able to post the next chapter towards the end of the week, Friday night at the latest. Bear with me… :)_


	3. Chapter 3

Hi everyone,

Bumpy road is bumpy. But, like I said, when in doubt or sad, bear the title in mind… ;)

So here's chapter 3. I hope you'll like it.

* * *

**** I Will Always Choose You ****

**- Chapter 3 -**

_I knew that day would come. _

_Since the moment when I heard you'd gotten out of prison, I knew. Maybe even since the moment you handed me that hairbrush and left me there, _**I knew.**_ That eventually, you'd reappear and throw everything into turmoil and pain and anger again. But I've spent two years meticulously getting myself ready to prevent _**that**_ from happening. I've spent two years re-building my life, pieces after pieces. I've spent this entire time making sure I'd be strong, perfectly emotionless and indifferent. That it wouldn't get at me. That I wouldn't let you. I'd made sure I would never be scared of you, again, not even once. But, most of all, that I would never allow myself to care anymore. And I thought I was ready… And I hate myself for being wrong and weak, and so fucking clueless about it all._

_But worse than that, I hate you. I hate you so much for being the one responsible of it. Again. _

_I have a life. A NEW life. And it feels good. I'm happy. I'm finally happy. But you think it happened like that, overnight? You fucking show up, where I work, in my hospital, in _**my**_ space, and you have the nerves to tell me you're alone, miserable and needy but, you think it was easy _**for me**_? You think those past two years have been a walk in the park? That, after you destroyed my house, my career and my life, my first reaction was to be fucking grateful because it gave me an opportunity to start anew? Well, let me clarify a thing or two for you, House. It was NOT a walk in the park. It was NOT a fucking blessed opportunity to finally get a chance to do something that I love doing, like you've put it. There was no relief at all in seeing you crash your car into my house and stare at that gaping hole you'd left in my dining room... at that gaping hole you'd left in my life._

_I didn't learn right away that you'd flown out of the country for three months. And that was probably for the best. I couldn't really afford to feel much angrier than I already was at that time. Yes, I was ANGRY. Torn apart, helpless, scared, and overwhelmed with a million of other crushing and extenuating emotions but, above all, angry. Anger is what kept me afloat. Anger is what prevented me from literally drowning but helped me focus on what had to be done, instead. Because there was so much to be done: legal procedures, witness audition processes, find a place to live, a roof to put above my daughter's head, answer the police, stomach my sister's barbs who kept telling me that I should have known better, listen to my mother reeling on and on about how my life was a fucking mess and that _**I**_ was the one responsible for my failures, reassure Rachel, comfort Wilson… Yes, comfort him! Because you hadn't just hurt me, you'd hurt him, too. And then, endure the judgmental stares and the hushed comments in PPTH, from everyone that I walked by. _**Everyone**_… even the ones I thought would be on my side. And God, if I'd known… if I'd known by then that you were sipping cocktails and fucking whores under the tropical sunset, while I was struggling so hard to survive that devastating storm… I… I don't know what I'd done, House. _

_When you gave yourself up to the police, they called me. And you know what's ironic? I'd just handed my letter of resignation to the Board a week before. Because I couldn't stand to work there anymore. I couldn't stand the sorry, pitying glances the medical staff shot me every day when they saw me. I couldn't handle their subtle, not so subtle pats on the forearm, or fake, encouraging smiles when they spotted me with puffy eyes in the morning when I arrived. I couldn't stand to have to walk with my head down, to avoid their scrutinizing gazes all day. But most of all, I'd finally decided that resigning was my best option because I couldn't stand just being in that hospital anymore, where every single corner, and hallway, and exam room reminded me of _**you**_… _

_I struggled not to make that inevitable decision for days. For three months, I tried, so hard, to resist. God, I tried! You have no idea how much. Because leaving was like avowing defeat. Leaving was an admission of weakness and I didn't want to give you that. But… eventually, it was me struggling like a moth to break its chrysalis. I had a job opening in Princeton General. Not as Dean - Garrison will probably work there till the day he dies of heart-attack behind his desk - but, they offered me to be director of the medical units. I could have worked there… At Princeton General, and not completely changed everything. My house was finally being rebuilt. Yes, because I had to _**pay in advance**_ for the reconstruction works to be done. I couldn't afford to wait for you to be ordered to pay costs, even if I knew you would most certainly be. Do you have any idea what it is like to live with a three year-old in hotel rooms, at your sister's or your mom's, occasionally at Wilson's, too, during THREE months? Do you have any idea what it feels like to have to explain, every night, to your crying daughter that it's not _**her**_ fault if she can't sleep in her bed, in a familiar environment, with all her toys and books and dolls because there're men that are working in her house to make it look "nicer"? Did you ever ask yourself what it felt like, for me, to tell my daughter that everything would be fine, when I had such a hard time convincing myself of it already? I was just getting there, House…_

_And then, they called me. They told me you were back on the US soil and that you'd given yourself up to the police. They told me you'd flown to Fiji after what you'd done. To Fiji… I think I puked after I hung up because I just couldn't face the giant chasm there was between your insulting immaturity and the challenges I had to deal with every day because of you. _

_How could you do that to me? _

_What went through your head that day? WHY? You said to me you were beaten in prison as if it could soften the blow to know that, somehow, but why would I pity you? When, yes, the truth is I think it's only fair that you were because you have NO clue whatsoever what it felt for me. I was beaten, too, House. In a way, that's exactly how it felt. But unlike you, it was not some stranger guy I'd never met before who did that to me. It was _**you**_ and that is what made it even worse._

_I quit my job because of you. I left the city I lived in, my friends, my family, because of you. I sold my house. I left everything behind. Because of you. _

_And you're telling me that you feel more miserable now than you did before because you think it should make me feel better? How about _**you**_? Would it appease you to know that I cried until my eyes were dry? I cried until it burnt. For days, and nights I cried. When we broke up, when you made me watch you marry that slut, when I found you drenched in your own blood in your bathtub that night… when you told me you felt hurt and then, you decided that I had to feel it, only ten times worse, too. _

_But you? Did you ever cry? Did you ever let me _**see you**_ cry?_

_You want me to feel better now, but how can I, when I don't even understand _**why**_ you did that to me? Did it make you feel better, too, when you did? Did you do it because you thought it'd be something so unavoidable that I would finally acknowledge your pain? Do you really think that I never had _**before that**_? Your life IS pain, House. It's impossible to forget it, and I _**never **_forgot it. You made sure I never would…_

_You remember what you told me the morning after we got together? I was hopeful, relieved and so happy that day and you, just before I left, you told me it wouldn't work, that you'd do horrible things to me. But I so wanted to believe you were wrong. I so wanted to believe in us… I thought I knew you. You're screwed up and difficult and emotionally locked-in and I've always known that. But that never discouraged me. And I never expected things to be easy between us. I never thought it'd be a quiet, dull ride to be in a relationship with you… Where there is passion, there's tumult. And I have loved you, House. I've loved you just the way you were. Could you not see that? Could you not trust me to feel that? I've loved you passionately and madly and irrationally but I never meant to _**intentionally**_ hurt you. I know I did, hurt you, but that was not easy for me, either. We tried. _**I**_ tried. I tried so hard to make it work, but you left me. You left me first. That day when you took Vicodin to gather up the courage to be with me, I understood you never were _**with me**_, for real. If you had to numb yourself to have the strength to face an emotional ordeal then what did it say about your feelings for me?_

_I should have listened to what you told me that first morning in your apartment because you were right. What you did to me was horrible. It was _**horrible**_._

_Yes, I found a new job. One that I love. One that I'm good at. I bought a new house. I moved in a new city. I have new friends. My daughter is happy. My life is in order, now. But don't you dare imply that I owe it to you! I did that myself. Alone. I was a broken mess, for months but, I got over it. I finally got over it. I hadn't cried in months. Until today, I had never shed another tear because I'd made a promise to myself that I wouldn't. _

_And then, you had to show up. You had to look me in the eyes and tell me you love me._

_How dare you? You don't know what love is, House. Love is not painful. Love is not that masochistic feeling you think it is. I don't want any of your love if this is what it does. To me. And to you… I was in peace. Finally. I was realizing that, yes, I _**could **_move on. You destroyed my house in Princeton, but you didn't destroy _**me**_. And, maybe I shouldn't say that because I fought that feeling for so long but, deep down, I know you didn't really mean to hurt _**me**_. Yet, is it really what matters? Does it change anything for me to know that? No. It doesn't. Because what you don't understand is that even if I forgave you, it would never change the fact that you never really let me in… During all those months when we were together, you made me think that I mattered to you, that I was everything to you but… you chose pain over me, instead. You chose devastation. Not when you crash your car into my home, but every other time when you hurt me, an eye for an eye, because you'd decided that I was the one who made you suffer… And what did you do? You drowned yourself in alcohol and pills. You MARRIED someone you didn't even know, for crying out loud! You acted like a child around the hospital. Worse, you acted like an irresponsible doctor. _

_How am I supposed to love that kind of man?_

_What were you trying to achieve? If you wanted me back… Did you even want me back, anyway? No. Don't you look me in the eyes and tell me that you want that now! Don't tell me you never loved someone the way you loved me. Don't tell me you need me in your life. You have no right to show up and tell me that. Don't say you've changed. Don't tell me you're getting clean… NO! I know who you are, House. I know what you did. Fuck, I know it. You DID all those things to me. And I don't want to go back there. I don't want to wake up in the middle of the night and think about what we had… Think about what I _**thought**_ we had. I cried too much over that already. _

_I have a new life. A new job. Rachel is happy. I'm HAPPY. You're saying you're clean and that you had time to think but I know it's a lie. You need your pills, House. You need them, not me. I've learned that the hard way. So don't come and tell me that you know what you want; that you know what to do to have it; that you're fixing yourself. I don't believe you anymore. I don't want to listen to you. I don't want to know how you feel. DON'T tell me how you feel. You have no right…_

_I came home after you showed up in the parking garage and I looked at my daughter. She's a beautiful, little five year-old girl. She's stopped having nightmares, now. And, she doesn't remember you. She doesn't anymore. She doesn't ask me about you, with the clueless candor of a child, anymore. And I don't want to remember you, either. I don't want to think about you. I just want my life to be normal. I just want to close my eyes and NOT see you. I don't want to have to hide my tears away from my daughter, ever again. Because I stopped crying._

_Until tonight, I'd stopped._

_Rachel came in my room in the middle of the night, tonight. The second she walked through the door, looking sheepish and groggy with her sleepy, puffy eyes, and stumbling to me with an unsure pace, I wiped my tears away hastily. So that she wouldn't see me like that. I thought she had a nightmare, and that she'd come to me, needing comfort. I have to be strong, for her. I have to comfort _**her**_. But, you know what she did? She came into my room in the middle of the night, holding her favorite cuddly toy in her hand and she walked right toward me. She hopped on the bed and she gave me her toy. She put it inside my hand, without a word, and she lied next to me, burying her face in my chest. And after a long, long moment of silence, she pulled away and she looked expectantly at me with her big, blue eyes. I tried to smile and I asked her why she wanted me to have her cuddly toy, and she said: "cuz Mr. Smee don't like it when you're sad, Mommy." _

_Well, fuck you, House. Why did you have to do this to me, now, when I've tried so fucking hard to forget you...?_

_..._

* * *

**A/N**

A grateful, huge thanks to everyone that read and comment this story (MystryGab, RochelleRene, oc7ober, LapizSilkwood, JLCH, vicpei1, Faby, Lenasti16, IHeartHouseCuddy, limptulip, OldSFfan, Raquel9, freeasabird14, HuddyGirl, Alex, Boo's House, housebound, Suzieqlondon, Reader, Huddy4ever, Little Greg, jaybe61, hell yeah, Abby, paulac45, huddy92, bere, Ocean'sWriting, bladesmum, lin12344 and the guests that didn't leave a name…) I'm so glad you like it so far, and I'm humbled by some of your thorough analysis.

You guys are putting a lot of pressure on me, LOL, and I hope I will be able to live up to your expectations, at least a little bit and not disappoint you too much along the way.

Thanks so much to everyone who favorited the story or put it on alert.

I think I'll be able to post the next chapter toward the end of the week-end… Meanwhile, thanks for reading and expressing your interest in this story.

Have a nice day ~ maya


	4. Chapter 4

Hi everyone,

I'm sorry for the wait. Though, it was still short, right? ;P

Actually, I spent the last couple days with my lovely friend Z, the nagging gizmo, who visited me on her way to the other side of the world and she monopolized all my spare time… Ugh. So see? I have an excuse! ;D

Anyway, here's chapter 4. After Cuddy's reaction, it's now House's turn to express his feelings. I hope you'll like it.

* * *

**** I Will Always Choose You ****

**- Chapter 4 -**

_It'd have been so easy for me to relapse after you rejected me in the parking lot that day. Because it'd have proven your point, wouldn't it? You're right, Cuddy. I'm a failure. I'm worth nothing. I'm a selfish asshole. I showed up, like that, one day and I dared to claim what wasn't mine. What I had no right to claim anymore. But… It's _**you**_. It's always been you. And you can't ask me to change that in a blink of an eye. You can't ask me to forget you, when I've experienced what it feels like to have you. I wish I could, somehow, because then, it'd mean my life wouldn't have to be so painful. Because then, it wouldn't hurt so much knowing every second of the day that I want something I can't have. And that it's my fault, and only mine, if I can't have it because I'm the one who ruined everything._

_You made that very clear, don't worry, I understand you. You didn't have to say it, anyway, for me to know that already. But I didn't come to you to undermine the consequences of what I've done. I know what I've done and I know it was horrible. I can't erase all those horrible things I've done to you in the past. I can't make them disappear. But… they're _**in the past**_, now. And they're my cross to bear. Not yours. I never wanted them to become your burden. It's stupid, I know but, I thought… I thought time would at least ease the pain I've caused you, a little. I thought you'd have… forgiven me. I'm not saying you had to forget, but… maybe you could have born my presence. Maybe just seeing me didn't have to be such a painful shock._

_What do I have to do to make you _**see**_ how I feel?_

_How can I explain that to you when I've tried, for so long, to repress those feelings myself? For many years, I've acted like a selfish, whimsical and temperamental brat. I've misled you to think that I didn't care; that you were not everything to me when, actually, you were… everything. I have loved you. I… love you. So much, it frightens me and, I know I shouldn't have let my fears get in the way of my feelings. I shouldn't have let them prevent me from telling you how I really felt. I should have opened up to you more. I should have let you know. Because, if you'd known… sometimes, I tell myself that if you'd known then, you wouldn't have dumped me. You would have given me a second chance. _

_Do you know how I _**really**_ feel, Cuddy? About you? About us? About what you mean to me?_

_You're not just part of my life, you _**are**_ my life. Is there anything, anything, you don't know about me? You and I, we're connected to each other by invisible ties… There must a joke about bondage in there somewhere… But no, don't worry. You see? I'm serious this time. I'm done joking and deflecting. It's never done me any good. I realize that, now. And I don't want to hide. I don't want to pretend anymore. I'm done pretending. Because I have nothing left to lose. I already lost you, and there's nothing worse than that feeling so I don't care if it's too late. I don't care if you think it's pointless. I have to say those things. I _**need**_ to say them to you. _

_You've witnessed me at my lowest. The first time, it was that day, a long, long time ago, when I had my infarction. You've seen me in pain then, when I was crying and begging because I was scared of losing my leg, while in fact, I should have just been scared of losing my life. And you were right: you saved my life that day. Not only that, but you understood me enough to grant me my most reckless demand and save my leg anyway, regardless of what the most basic, rational medical diagnosis commanded you to decide. It put me in pain for the rest of my life but I, and only I, signed for it. Even if I wasn't conscious when you made that decision for me, it wasn't you, who made it. It was _**me**_. I made you do it. You were crazy and bold and, in my world, Cuddy, it means you were, and will always be, the person I can trust the most because… you respected my will. You didn't give up, when every other doctor would have acted like a coward and amputated because it was the safest and easiest decision to make. And, yes, maybe today I would not be in pain like I am, but I would have lost my leg and I would have hated anyone who'd have done that to me. To do that is to not know who I am, what I am and what I fight for. But you? You fought for me, against your better judgment, you did what I silently asked and you faced the consequences…_

_Even when I acted like a total arrogant prick with that detective guy, Tritter, and put you in an awfully uncomfortable and even risky position, you still fought for me. You lied for me. You perjured yourself. I never properly said 'thank you' but, what you did for me that day, in that courtroom… Cuddy, that was… I don't know. I owe you so much. And, like the asshole that I am, I've never let you know how grateful I was when you deserve, more than anyone else, to know that I am. I'm so grateful to have had you. You saved me so many times. From myself and from the hypnotizing appeal of those abysses I've flirted with on so many occasions. _

_You've always been my light at the end of the tunnel. _

_When I committed myself to Mayfield, I did it for you. Not because I wanted to detox _**for**_ you but, because I finally realized that I needed to stop being that useless, drug-addicted piece of shit I knew you would never allow yourself to love. Yes, I wanted you to love me. I wanted to be worthy of your love. I spent decades chasing you, Cuddy. You hadn't left me much choice. All those years, I had you under my skin. After that night in Michigan, it was always meant to be you. But…_

_Maybe you never asked yourself how it feels like to be committed in a psychiatric hospital. Maybe you never really wanted to know what it is to live amongst the crazy people. And, I never told you about it because, well, because at some point, since I had you, it'd become pointless to talk about it but, I lived that. I experienced that feeling. The whole process of getting clean and trying, day after day, to put myself together was hard. But that was not the hardest part. The hardest part was to believe in myself. Find a reason to have faith. Hold on to the crazy hope that I was not doing it for nothing. I never told you that but… I met a girl in Mayfield. Lydia, her name was Lydia. She gave me that hope. And I… slept with her. Just once. We had sex. It was hasty and out of the blue sex but, it was cathartic. She made me feel worthy again. She made me feel human. If I found the strength to hold on while I was there, it's because she gave me the feeling that I could. That I had a reason to hope for a better future. That someone could give me love, again. I was not used to dealing with that feeling, anymore. And, even though I may have deluded myself into thinking, for a while, that I wanted her, I want you to know that, it was _**you**_ I wanted. I never stopped wanting you. Lydia, in a way, was just a key to unlock the door that would lead to you..._

_Why say that to you, now, when maybe, it'll probably hurt you to know it? Because, I'm coming clean, Cuddy. It's time… I don't want to lie to you. I'm tired of all the lies I have to tell to pretend that I'm fine. I'm not fine. I miss you. Every day is another day in hell without you. It's dark, and dull everywhere I look. Chase is slowly recovering. No one is complaining about anything, not even him. I just feel like I'm going with the easy option, again. Life is tasteless and unchallenging. My new team? They're babies! They keep making beginners mistakes and it's not even fun to try and show them how to do things the right way. _**My**_ way. They don't know me, anyway. They don't know what excites me. They don't know where I should stop, or even when to tell me to stop. I need you. I need your light. I need your boundaries. I need to be able to trust someone like I would trust you. I need to feel excited, again. That's why I came to see you. _

_And you rejected me. _

_I've done all those horrible things to you but we had more than that, didn't we? When we were together, I was not that horrible man you pushed away the other day in that parking garage. There was a time when you've loved me. There was a time when I've made you happy. Please, tell me I'm right. I remember your smiles. I remember how I used to make you laugh. I remember your smell and the silkiness of your skin. I remember how it felt to make love to you. I can still hear the words you used to whisper in my ears when we had sex. You'd seen me at my worst but you've elicited the best in me, too. All I ever wanted was to be with you, take care of you. For as long as you'd have let me. And we were happy by then. At least, I was happy. Finally. Like I'd never been before._

_It was all too perfect…_

_I know I should have been there for you, when you got sick. I was a coward, instead. I let you down. But, do you have any idea how the thought of losing you terrified me? My whole world literally crumbled when I thought you were going to die. There're no words that are strong or accurate enough to describe that feeling. I know I probably have no right to say that to you, after everything I made you endure; after I put my life in danger so many times, because I was too reckless and irresponsible to see that people cared about me. That _**you**_ cared about me. Yes, when Amber died, you were there for me. You held my hand. You stayed by my side. I know I made you suffer then, and still, you were there and with your presence, somehow, you let me know that you didn't want to lose me. But, we were not in a relationship then. I mattered to you, but I was just a doctor. Just a friend, a guy. While you, you were the reason why I woke up in the morning. You were the air I breathed. My first bold hope in a happier future…_

_I took one pill. ONE. To numb my fear, yes. To gather up the courage to hold your hand and look you in the eye without thinking I could maybe lose you. I jeopardized a year of sobriety for you. And I didn't even question my decision for one second. I didn't even weigh up the implications of my action. That was just the only way I knew how to handle pain. That was just the only, clumsy way I'd found to be with you and, at the same time, prevent my irrational fear of losing you from overwhelming me. And, isn't it ironic? After I put so much on the line for you, after I tried so hard to live up to your expectations, after I did my best to satisfy your needs, in spite of my own needs, my own fears; after I fought _**my**_ demons to have the courage to fight yours, with you… I still lost you all the same. My love was never good enough for you, was it? How do you do that? How do you hold the hand of the person you love the most and deal with the thought of losing them? I couldn't. I don't know how to do that. I can't._

_But, I'm learning…_

_I came to see you and you drove me away. You rejected me. It'd have been so easy for me to relapse. But I haven't. I'm holding on. What for? I don't know. I just know that you were right: I need to do this for myself, and no one else. It's hard but I won't give up this time. It's been a month now. Two weeks since the day I last saw you. Maybe people don't change but circumstances do. You're not part of my life anymore and you made it very clear that you wouldn't be, ever again. I have to accept that. I have to understand. It hurts, like hell, but what can I do? You decide. I know. I lost the right to do that the day I screwed up. Still, seeing you again was the best thing that's happened to me in months. The most painful, too but… maybe this is our paradox, Cuddy: you brought an old pain back but it made me feel alive, again. After having been numbed and emotionally detached for months, you gave me a reason to fight for something again._

_Dominika showed up yesterday in the hospital. She wanted me to lie for her to Homeland Security so that she'd finally get her green card. My life is just a succession of ironies, isn't it? But I put myself in this, I know. Of all the things I did it to you over the years that one was probably the worst because I did it to hurt you, intentionally. It will never be enough just to say it, and I'm perfectly aware that it will also never erase the pain I've caused you, or minimize the total absurdity of my behavior but, I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry I did that to you. It was not only idiotic and irresponsible, it was uncalled-for. You didn't deserve to go through that. But, you had left me and I was worse than broken. It felt as if my life had lost its meaning. I just wanted you to acknowledge me. I wanted you to do something, _**anything**_. I don't know. I thought you'd have stopped me. Call me stupid, but I kind of hoped that. When you didn't, I was left alone, to face the consequences of my choice. I was married, yes but Cuddy, I swear, it never went further than that sham of a wedding. Dominika means nothing to me. I didn't say that to you the other day for any reason. It's the truth. I don't care about her. I told you about Lydia, because I owe you the truth so, believe me when I say that nothing ever happened between Dominika and me. After what happened the day I crashed my car into your house, she left and I've never seen her again. Until yesterday, I'd never even heard of her. She offered me $30,000 to lie for her during the INS interview but I turned her offer down. Even if you don't want me in your life anymore, I owe it to you to clean the mess that I've done. Dominika doesn't matter. You do._

_It's always been you, Cuddy. And you can ask me anything you want. You can ask me not to see you. You can ask me not to talk to you. But you can't ask me not to love you, even if it's unrequited, when I've known, when you've let me know, how it feels to have you… _

_No, you can't ask me that._

…

* * *

**A/N**

Thank you, so much, to everyone that read and commented this story since the last installment: JLCH, LapizSilkwood, jaybe61, MystryGab, bere, OldSFfan, IHeartHouseCuddy, preciousandsweetcheeksiin1, Little Greg, freeasabird14, Suzieqlondon, Reader, Raquel9, Lenasti16, Abby, paulac45, ikissedthelaurie, Boo's House, HuddyGirl, Alex, Faby, linda12344, RochelleRene, and the guest that didn't leave a name…

I am immensely grateful that you took the time to stop by and share your thoughts with me. I loved that some of you saw the struggle behind Cuddy's anger, and how she's desperately trying to fight the powerful attraction that irresistibly keeps sucking her back into House's vortex. I know that for some of you, it still felt painful to read and I'm sorry. I'm trying to be as uncompromising as I can and like I said, maybe there's some of my own anger, too, in this. Which is why you may wonder how the hell I'm gonna put them back together, in the midst of all that ugly mess I'm weaving and well, I kinda wonder that myself… LOL.

Kidding. I know where this is going, and how. Quite precisely if I may add. And I reiterate my promise to you that there is a Huddy silver lining, eventually. Keep your faith! :)

To lenasti16: I can't tell if those chapters are diary entries or if they're meant to become letters at some point, but maybe I can say that the feelings that are expressed within those chapters will play an important part in the story as it unravels…

To paulac45: I know that Foreman mentions in 'Transplant' that Cuddy "gave her notice the day after the _incident_" (what a way to put it, btw…) but, I deliberately chose to ignore that because, somehow, it honors my idea of what Cuddy's character was better to imagine that she didn't just cave the first day and give up on the fifteen years she'd entirely dedicated to PPTH, without at least struggling first. Three months seemed like a good compromise, since it also conveniently followed the timing of House's return to the US after his escape in the Fiji.

I'll post the next chapter asap… in the meantime, thanks again for reading and expressing your interest in this story.

Have a nice day ~ maya


	5. Chapter 5

_Hi guys!_

_Here's a new, less angsty, chapter, though not less meaningful as everything happens for a reason… :P_

_I hope you'll like it._

* * *

**** I Will Always Choose You ****

**- Chapter 5 -**

They're sitting at a table, in a crowded bar, during happy hour, eating tapas and enjoying a fresh beer after their work day. Or more precisely, House is _trying _to enjoy his beer and tapas, while listening to Wilson reeling on and on about everything that, according to him, is totally going south in his friend's life. So it's not really 'happy hour,' per se. For House, it feels more like: endless-Wilson's-lecture hour. _Again_.

"Chase… reckless… irresponsible… When will you ever learn?… Dominika… how the hell… beware… big troubles… crazy… what are you gonna do?... Get your shit together…" House is only catching random bits of Wilson's spiel in the midst of the rather loud background noise, but maybe it's because he really doesn't pay attention at all to what the oncologist is saying.

He knows that speech all too well. He's heard it times and times again over the years and even though it's been helpful, sometimes, in a kind of screwed up way, to let his friend berate him like he was a disobeying, little boy, he's really had more than enough of that routine lately so, unconsciously, his brain blocks his friend's words and instead, he nods in approval in an effort to show his best faked concern.

Suddenly – maybe there's a God, after all, House thinks – Wilson's cell phone starts ringing and he hastily fishes it out of his inner jacket's pocket, glancing swiftly at the screen before picking up.

"Hello?"

House takes a deep, relieved breath and offhandedly begins scanning the room around him, happy with the distraction, but his gaze quickly returns to his friend when he hears him say, in a suspiciously hushed voice:

"Uhm, yeah, hold on a second…"

House stares at Wilson, eyes wide open, with this typical quizzical look of his, his curiosity undeniably piqued but, Wilson promptly gets up, visibly embarrassed to have to have this conversation here, and now, in front of his friend.

"Sorry," Wilson tells House apologetically, as he covers the receiver with his palm, "I have to take this call." And, before House can say anything, he strides away as fast as he can.

"You already kinda DID that when you picked up the phone, you know?" House calls after him, as he watches the oncologist retreat in a quieter corner in the back.

For a short while, House observes Wilson, more amused than genuinely interested by what his conversation is about, studying his theatrical waves and the distinctive way with which, no matter what his interlocutor is saying, he invariably ends up hanging his head in shame and looking sheepishly at the ground as if he wanted to disappear underneath. There really is a sort of pattern, here, in the way Wilson always answers a phone call: first, he looks desperate and guilty then, empathic and understanding. And for anyone who doesn't really know him, even though Wilson does get non work-related calls, _sometimes_, it would seem like each and every one he gets is, in fact, the hospital announcing him he's lost another patient. Maybe that's precisely what it is, right now, but House doesn't really care. After a moment spent spying on his friend, just for the sake of it, he returns his focus to the table and takes a swig of his beer, right out of the bottle.

Several minutes have passed, and House has stopped paying attention to whatever it is that Wilson may, or may not, still talk about in that back corner of the bar, as he's watching a group of young med students play darts near the counter instead. The sound of Wilson slouching back heavily in the seat in front of him startles him and he jerks his head back in his direction.

"So? Which one is it?" House asks him, smiling mischievously at him.

"Which one is what?"

"Which one of your exes is it that you're banging, _again_? I'm guessing, probably not Sam, since we all know how well that went the last time you've tried…"

"I'm not having… seeing… that's none of your business, House!" Wilson snaps, acting perfectly outraged.

"Aww, so no hot date for you, Jimmy boy? That's too bad. I've noticed you've gained a few unsightly belly folds lately. You could really use a little sex-exercise, you know."

"Fuck you."

"Well, I didn't mean _with me_!" House adds, a huge grin spreading across his face.

Wilson rolls his eyes skyward, clearly exasperated, and sighs heavily, as if he were considering what his next option is.

"If you _must _know, that was Cuddy," he deadpans.

House's grin instantly fades and he freezes, with his jaw slack, only briefly allowing the shock to register on his face. Once he's recovered a little, he swallows back the lump in his throat and looks at his friend with a piercing gaze.

"And?" he says expectantly, his voice suddenly grave and devoid of all its previous sarcasm.

"_And_?!" Wilson exclaims extravagantly. "Don't you think I should be the one asking you that? You SAW her!"

"I did."

Instantly, images of her standing so close and so far from him at the same time in that poorly-lit parking garage flood his mind. He winces, redirecting the painful memory to the only familiar place he knows, and he clutches his fingers around the scar on his thigh to keep his focus on a physical sensation instead.

"You DID? That's your answer?" Wilson puffs angrily, rubbing his forehead in consternation. "Jesus, House, you could have at least told _me_."

"What for? I'm a big boy. I didn't need your authorization."

"That's not what I mean. But, for the love of God, could you, just for once, not think about you only and see how that put _me_ in a very awkward and uncomfortable position?"

House stares at him, stubbornly remaining silent.

"She thinks _**I**_ told you where to find her. I had to apologize for-"

"Why the hell would you apologize?" House huffs, incredulous. "You didn't do anything!"

"I… she caught me off guard," Wilson defends himself sheepishly. "What was I supposed to say?"

"The truth!" House scolds, with a "duh" face. "I'm the one who found her. You're not responsible."

"How?"

"Is it really relevant how?"

"Well, it is for me, yes! God only knows what kind of twisted, fucked-up idea went through your head. You could have talked to me about it. I thought I was your friend. Thanks a lot for the vote of confidence," Wilson spits, a bit angrily.

"She did a presentation on a new fertility protocol at Penn's C.A.R.E. It was mentioned in several reviews. That's how I found her. And, I didn't want you to know because I didn't want you to get in trouble in case she thought you'd helped me do it."

Wilson stares at House with a "not buying it" face.

"Ok. _Fine_! I didn't tell you because I didn't want to have to suffer through another one of your endless lectures and hear you say how really stupid you thought that was. Which you're about to do now, anyway."

Wilson smirks, vexed to hear the diagnostician imply he can be so predictable. Yet, there's no denying the fact that, in that very moment, lecture House is exactly what he feels like doing. When House came to him a few weeks earlier, asking about Cuddy, he should have known that it was not just a meaningless inquiry. When has House ever asked random questions, anyway? Even more so about Cuddy? He should have seen it coming. And had he understood, he would certainly have tried to talk his friend out of it, indeed. Not that it would have served any kind of useful purposes, though. House has always done whatever the hell he wanted and whenever he's set his mind on something, the oncologist knew that there was no argument rational enough to deter him from doing exactly what he'd decided to do.

"How did it go?" He eventually opts to say, his resigned tone betraying what he's anticipating to hear.

He can still hear her voice echo into the phone's receiver when he asked her that same question only a few minutes before: "_What did he want?_" Her silence, then, had just added more confusion to Wilson's utter astonishment when he'd first heard her say that House had come see her. "_How did it go?_" "_I'd rather not talk about it_," she'd finally answered, her voice a distant, yet determined whisper. "_Did he… did he hurt you?_" he'd tasted bile in the back of his throat, just for having to ask her _that_ but, as much as it felt to him like he was being a total ass to his friend, history had unfortunately taught him it was not a groundless concern on his part. "_No. No, he didn't… hurt me… not… physically if that's what you mean._" And, the sound of her heavy sigh when she'd said that was what had pained him the most. In that instant, he'd realized he couldn't really tell if she'd sighed because he _had to_ ask her that question, or if she'd wanted to express her relief that he hadn't and it had made him feel sick, and ashamed of him not to be able to tell the difference. "_But he hurt you all the same,._" He'd said, sadly … "_It was a shock seeing him,_" she'd confessed in a low voice…

"Didn't she tell you?" House challenges, testily, shaking Wilson out of his reverie with his question.

House doesn't want to resign himself to ask that straightforwardly just yet, but the main concern behind his question mostly resides in knowing what Cuddy said _about him_; or… if she even said anything about him, at all. The truth is he's dying to know that, even if he's perfectly aware that it must be some kind of purely masochistic need, as he highly doubts she had anything nice to say about him.

"She wasn't exactly specific," Wilson retorts coldly, mostly to hide his discomfort. He really doesn't want to have to confess to his friend that, somehow, wondering if House had hurt her had now become a _real_ concern he had to consider. "So?" Wilson prompts, when he's still not getting any answer.

"That went really swell! I told her I'd always love her. She told me to get the fuck out of her life," House finally exclaims with his usual extravaganza, trying to hide the pang that just hit him in the chest behind a flourish.

Upon hearing his friend's confession, Wilson grimaces and closes his eyes for a brief instant.

"Why did you have to tell her _that_? What good do you really think could come out of it?"

House averts his gaze for a second but Wilson still doesn't miss the immense sorrow that he just saw lying there. There's more to it than just the physical pain that he knows he probably feels since he's weaned off his opiate dependency barely a month before.

"Is that why you went into brutal detox all of a sudden?" he asks him, realizing only now that there's probably a connection between the two events.

House stares intensely at him, and his deep blue eyes glisten with hurt pride.

"It doesn't matter what motives I had then," he replies, with a sad voice, partly confessing that he had indeed made that decision because of her. "What matters is that I am not going back _now_."

There's an 'in spite of what happened' kind of ominous double-entendre in the way he's just said it and Wilson can't help but feel sorry for his friend, somehow.

"Do you want me to talk to her?" He offers, unconvincingly.

"Hell no! Your meddling times are over, Wilson!" House answers sarcastically.

"I'm fine," he adds with a groan, shortly after, his admission an obvious lie, as he can hardly sustain the oncologist's scrutinizing stare and starts stealing food from his plate in the hope that it will redirect his focus on something more futile; most of all, something that's not him, or how exactly miserable he's feeling in that instant.

"You're not fine," Wilson insists nonetheless, "which is understandable given what you just told me Cuddy said to you."

House starts tapping his fingers on the table, showing signs of exasperation. He really doesn't need to have that conversation, with Wilson of all people, when the last thing he wants is to be reminded how much it hurts to try and compel himself to forget her. It's hard enough as it is to constantly have to push the image of her to the back of his mind and shut down that nagging voice in his head that keeps telling him things could have been a lot different, had he not ruined all his chances with her.

"What are you gonna do now?" Wilson adds, after a heavy silence.

"Nothing. I don't know…" House sighs heavily. "She was the best thing that's ever happened to me and… I totally blew it," he suddenly confesses bluntly, looking down at his now empty plate to avoid his friend's gaze. "I'll just… move on. I don't have much choice anyway, do I?"

A little taken off guard by House's unusual fit of genuine sincerity, Wilson nods empathically but says nothing.

"What about Dominika? She's just come back in your life. She'd make a perfect distraction," he suggests clumsily, surprising even him with the words that just came out of his mouth.

House sends him a death glare and Wilson instantly regrets what he's just said.

"No. Dominika is not back _in my life_," House clarifies, with a resolute tone. "She's never been a part of it. And she won't be. Ever."

"Well, may I remind you, you're still married to her," Wilson objects with absolute dishonesty, mostly to hide his previous embarrassment for having brought up the subject in the first place.

"Not for long."

"What? You're getting a divorce? I thought she'd offered you $30,000 to help her pass the last INS interview with success. Are you saying you actually turned down her offer? That'd be unusual."

"Why?" House barks bitterly. "Because that's who I am? I'm the guy who does reckless, thoughtless things no matter the consequences? Newflash for you: those days are _over_!"

Wilson narrows his eyes at him, quite speechless by his friend's reaction.

"Wow," he says baffled. "I don't know what happened with Cuddy but-"

"I'm going," House interrupts, grabbing his cane and standing up abruptly.

For a while, the two men stare at each other, not saying another word, and studying each other challengingly. House looks away first, briefly, then takes a deep breath. When he turns his face toward the oncologist again, his gaze has darkened with gravity.

"Did she… Cuddy, did she ask about me?" He asks in a voice filled with regret, as if he already knew the answer.

Wilson bites his lower lip and shifts on his chair, visibly uncomfortable with the question.

"No," he finally replies, with a definite tone. "She didn't." He watches as his friends gulps and tries to stomach the painful news with as much stoicism as he can muster. "It's better like that, House," he adds more sympathetically.

"Yeah." House smirks bitterly and nods. "It's better like that," he repeats before limping away toward the exit.

Wilson looks around him, still a little uncertain what to think about the conversation he just had with his friend. On the table, next to his plate he spots his cell phone that he put there when he came back after Cuddy's phone call.

"_Where does he live?_" she'd asked him, out of the blue, her voice barely above a whisper, sounding guilty and hesitant. "_Does he have a new place?_" It had come off as a surprise that she could ask him that, but he'd sighed and replied that, no, House had actually kept his old apartment and was currently living there. The wobbling breath that had ensued had made his stomach churn. "_Who does he work with now? Does he still have his old team?_" This time, Wilson's sigh had been even heavier as the obvious melancholy he could hear transpire in her words made him feel uncomfortable but, most of all, sort of helpless as a friend. What was he supposed to say? Did she really want to know the answers to her questions? Why would she ask them? Did he have the right to talk about House with her, without hurting her, or betraying his friend? "_I'm sorry Wilson_," she'd said, understanding his reluctance to go further down that road. "_Just tell me…_" "_What?_"… "_Is it true that he's gotten clean?_" "_Yes._" … "_And… has he…_" Her words had hung in the air like soap bubbles that were threatening to burst. "_No. As of now, he still is._" "_As of now,_" she'd repeated quietly, as if talking to herself.

Wilson gets up and grabs his phone on the table before putting it back in his pocket. As he's slipping his raincoat on, he thinks that, even though he can pride himself on being one of the persons that knows them both the most, there's always going to be something he will never truly understand about them, or about what they want from each other. It was not an easy choice to make, to deliberately lie to House about what Cuddy had really told him and he's not particularly proud of himself to have done it but, in his own words, did House not confess that he'd better move on? So really, what good could come out of it, when telling House about that now would have only added unnecessary confusion to his life, which was already complicated enough as it was at the moment?

"It's probably better like that," Wilson says to himself, out loud, before exiting the bar and stepping outside into the cold night.

...

* * *

_**A/N**_

_Thanks a lot to all of you for stopping by and, once again, leaving me a comment: IHeartHouseCuddy, JLCH, Oldsfan, lenasti16, jaybe61, last read, Boo's House, freeasabird14, Abby, Alex, paulac45, HuddyGirl, MystryGab, Yo, southpaw2, linda12344, vicpei1, Faby, LapizSilkwood, and the guest that didn't leave a name…_

_I'm immensely grateful for the interest you show in my writing, even if some of you seem to disagree with the road I chose to take._

_A big thank you to everyone who read that story, favorited it (or me as an author) or put it on alert, as well. Even if I don't hear from you, I'm very flattered to know that you're out there and enjoying the ride. :)_

_I'll probably post the next chapter, a short one, sooner rather than later so stay tuned! _

_Have a nice day ~ maya_


	6. Chapter 6

_Hi everyone!_

_Here's the new chapter. I hope you're still enjoying the ride. :) _

_"There is scarcely any passion without struggle." - Albert Camus_

* * *

**** I Will Always Choose You ****

**- Chapter 6 -**

"Where do you keep your peeler?"

"In the drawer to your right, underneath the toaster."

"Ah yes! I keep forgetting," Julia says with a chuckle.

"And yet, you come here almost twice a month," Cuddy scolds her gently.

"Yes, but I don't come here to memorize where you put all your kitchen utensils. I'd rather we talk about juicy stuff."

"You can talk about juicy stuff if you want. I'm making the pie," Cuddy says, sticking out her tongue to her sister playfully and then turning to grab a cake pan in the cupboard above her.

"Oh come on, Lise! I'm the married girl. My life is as boring as a nun's," Julia moans in protest, barely holding back her laughter.

"Good thing David can't hear you!"

Julia comes near her sister, smiling unapologetically, and nudges her in the hip with a sway of her butt.

"Who's going to tell him that? Not you, anyway… Pass the apples, please," she says, putting out her hand. "So, tell me about you, sis: any hot guy in your life, lately?"

Cuddy's heart instantly starts racing and she feels a pang stab her in the pit of her stomach. The next second, her hand begins shaking in spite of her and, unable to grip the fruit bowl properly she drops it on the kitchen floor with a loud crashing noise.

"Shit!" she exclaims, promptly kneeling down to gather the fruits that have rolled everywhere at her feet but mostly to hide her distressed face from her sister.

But Julia quickly follows suit and squats down next to her, staring at her with a mischievous, conspiring smile.

"Ooh, do tell!"

Cuddy jerks her chin up and stares back at her sister, her lips set in stubborn silence.

"Mommy, mommy, I wanna watch a dvd!" Rachel interrupts them, entering the kitchen and excitedly skipping about toward her mother.

Cuddy, too happy to seize this opportunity to escape her sister's meddling question, gets up and wipes her hands clean on the nearest dishcloth.

"Oh, mommy!" The little girl says in a serious tone, as she puts her hands on her hips, mimicking her mother's posture when she grounds her. "You knocked all the apples over."

"Yeah," Julia says, getting up, too. "That's one clumsy mommy you've got here, isn't it?"

Rachel giggles and Cuddy glowers at her sister, before redirecting her focus on her daughter, as she bends forward to come to her level.

"What do you want to watch, Rachel?" she asks her, putting her hands on her shoulders gently.

"I wanna watch House cartoon!" The little girl exclaims, unhesitant.

Cuddy cringes and feels the weight of her sister's judgmental stare upon her. Avoiding her gaze, she forces a smile and grabs her daughter's hand, hastily leading her out of the kitchen with her.

"Sure sweetie, mommy's gonna put it for you right away," she says, as she exits the room.

A few minutes later, she reinters the kitchen and braces herself for what she knows is about to come. Julia has gathered the apples and put them back inside the bowl, except for the one that she's currently peeling with extra attention, pretending to ignore her sister's presence. Cuddy comes close to her side and grabs another fruit, starting to peel it too.

The silence in the room, just like the fruits, could be cut in slices. After a while, Julia sighs heavily and turns to Cuddy.

"Does she really have to mention _his_ name?" she asks, reproachfully. "But, more importantly, why do you let her?"

"It's not _his_ name," Cuddy replies, upset. "It's her favorite cartoon's name…"

"Called _House_?" Julia spits, disdainfully.

"No, it's a _pirate_ cartoon. She and… House used to watch it together so that's how she was used to calling it back then. It's just a child's old habit, is all."

"Is it, really?"

"What?"

"Lisa, Rachel is FIVE! Changing habits is as easy for her as changing her doll's clothes."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning, maybe you don't _want _her to stop calling it that."

Cuddy feels a sudden wave of conflicting emotions overwhelm her and she starts blinking rapidly, sucking her lower lip into her mouth.

"Rachel liked House a lot," she says sheepishly, with an unsure voice. "It's not up to me to-"

"You're her mother!" Julia interrupts angrily. "Of course it's up to you to do whatever is necessary for her to forget that _bastard_. She shouldn't even mention his name! What the hell are you thinking?"

"You're reading too much into this," Cuddy replies defensively. "It doesn't mean anything to her. It's just a cartoon name."

"Whatever. I mean, come on Lise," Julia says with a much softer voice, turning to face her sister. "You've moved on, right? You've started over. What you need right now in your life is-"

"If you say 'a man,' I swear," Cuddy warns, gulping back the huge lump that starts forming in her throat.

"But I'm right! You know I'm right! Mark was such a nice guy-" she says regretfully, touching the side of Cuddy's forearm gently.

"Please. I told you I didn't want to talk about that with you anymore. You have to stop. This is my life-"

"What about Paul, that handsome guy who works with David? He just got divorced and he-"

"Dammit, Julia, do you listen to what I'm saying?" Cuddy shouts as she feels the sting of tears prickling her eye rims and threatening to fall. "I don't want you to hook me up with _any_ guy, you hear me?"

"It's been TWO years!" Julia shouts back, accusingly.

Upon hearing her sister's hint at the event that threw her life into turmoil and changed everything, Cuddy suddenly feels like she can't hold back the effects of all the sleepless nights she's spent lately any longer. She's been crying a lot, rolling under her sheets, trying to suppress _his_ image from her mind, trying to calm her beating heart, and hoping that, when she falls asleep, _he_ won't pop up in her dreams, unwanted, again. And, it's too much really. It's too much heavy weight to carry, too many emotions to deal with.

Without a warning, feeling overwhelmed and helpless, Cuddy throws the apple and her peeler away in a fit of anger, mostly against herself, before running to the opposite counter.

"EXACTLY!" she yells, a single tear rolling down her cheek. "It's been two years. Two fucking years!"

Julia instantly drops her peeler, too, and strides over to join her sister, enveloping her in her arms.

"Hey!" She coos softly. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to upset you. I'm sorry."

Cuddy shakes off her sister's embrace and takes a deep breath, regaining her composure.

"Yeah, well, I'm a big girl, ok? I can take care of myself on my own, I-"

"Nobody says you can't but, sometimes, it's nice to have a man in…" Cuddy glares at her warningly and Julia cleverly opts to censor herself, stopping in the middle of her sentence. "Ok, alright. No more talk about men!" she proclaims, offering a pacifying smile to her sister.

Cuddy tries to smile, too, tentatively, but there is that lump again, in her throat, growing bigger and bigger and soon her smile fades away and her lips starts quivering and, to escape her sister's inquiring gaze, she swirls around, turning her back on her, as she's trying to control her ragged breathing.

Cautiously, Julia comes close and touches the side of her arm gently.

"What's wrong, sis?"

Cuddy doesn't budge but keeps staring outside the window, remaining stubbornly silent instead.

"Come on," Julia insists with a soft voice, "You're edgy. You're emotional… I _know_ you, Lise. There must a reason…"

Cuddy sucks in a sharp, wobbling breath and crosses her arms in front of her chest, forcefully gripping the sides of her arms in a self-protective way, as if she wanted to hide behind a shield. Julia observes her in silence, knowing that waiting patiently is her best option as she feels that her sister is struggling to decide whether or not she should confide in her. After some long, endless seconds Cuddy finally turns around and faces her. Her gaze is challenging and she sighs with resignation before taking a few steps back to keep her distance from her sister. She bites her lower lip nervously and squares her shoulders, steeling herself for the unpleasant, tiring reaction she _knows_ her confession is undeniably going to trigger.

"I… I saw him," she finally says with a low voice, looking her sister right in the eyes defiantly.

"What? I don't understand. You saw Mark? Are you guys reconnecting? Aww, Lisa, but that's great!" Julia says, completely clueless about what Cuddy is trying to say.

Cuddy puffs, upset, and twists her fingers inside her hands apprehensively, unconsciously taking another step back.

"No, you don't get it," she explains, looking down at her feet. "I... I saw… House."

The blow that follows resonates within the walls of her kitchen almost instantly.

"WHAT?" Julia yells. "When? _Where_?"

"I… I… d-don't know," she lies, faltering. The truth is she perfectly remembers when it was, but cowardly, she's somehow trying to buy herself some time. "Six weeks ago. He came to the hospital and-"

"Oh my God! Did you call the police?"

Cuddy shoots her head up and glowers angrily at her sister.

"No. I didn't," she retorts, harshly, voluntarily omitting to say that she, indeed, tried.

Lately, she's been thinking a lot about what her initial reaction had been when he'd showed up at her workplace and how cruel and irrational it had been of her, somehow, to assume right away that he would do _her_ any _physical_ harm… She thinks about him, about his face that day, when he'd handed her the hairbrush, how she'd taken it from his hand, literally aghast, as if she were looking at a completely different man. House had always been unpredictable, a boiling mess of pent-up, conflicting emotions but this? It never was him, was it? Then, she sees his face in the parking garage, again, and how miserable he looked. She recalls the burning intensity in his eyes, and how his gaze pierced into her gaze. She hears the words he spoke to her, again, his pleading voice. She hears his resignation and her anger and she can see the awful, awful waste… _Again_.

She takes a deep breath, and forcefully presses her palms against her eyeballs, desperately trying to chase the images that haunt her away from her mind. She rubs her eyes a few times and then stares back at her sister's bemused face.

"It's not like he was going to hurt _me_," Cuddy hears herself say, and a feeling of nausea pervades her because, in a way, that's exactly what she's been struggling, maybe too hard, to resist saying since the moment he'd reappeared in her life.

Remembering the atrocity of what he'd done, _holding on_ to it like a drowning person holds on to a life preserver is what she's been doing all this time, no matter what, because that's what she needed to do in order to carry on with her life. She needed that reminder, day after day, to forget him. She _needed_ that to erase the otherwise destabilizing, happier memories of him, _of them_, that were stuck in her mind.

"You've got to be KIDDING me!" Julia exclaims, stunned. "Do you not remember what he's done to you? Because I was there, too. I can refresh your memory if you want."

"Yes. I do remember," Cuddy snaps, crossing her arms in front of her chest defensively. "I don't need _you_ to remind me. But…"

"But what?"

"He's done his time. He was in jail. He…"

"Oh. My. God! Seriously?" Julia throws her hands up in the air, so astonished by her sister's words she's almost incapable of finding her own. "What the Hell is the matter with you?" She says accusingly.

"Nothing!" Cuddy shouts, all frayed nerves and distressed feelings. She covers her mouth with her hand to muffle the sound of a whimper, afraid of what she might say next.

"What did he want, anyway?" Julia asks, her tone biting.

All Julia can focus on are her younger sister's eyes, two wide-open, glistening, blue orbs. And the confusion she can read there in that instant is just something she finds impossible to bear. When Cuddy refuses to answer, she takes a step in her direction and points a finger at her.

"Don't do this, Lisa," she warns. "You hear me? DON'T do this!"

Raising her chin up, Cuddy stares at her for a second and then looks away, still not saying a word.

"Fuck!" Julia blurts out, the use of that curse word unusual enough for her to betray how angry she is. "I can't believe it." She rubs her forehead with the palm of her hand as if she wants to delete all this madness from her brain.

For a while, the shouts are replaced by the sounds of both their agitated breaths only, until Cuddy breaks the heavy silence with a hushed voice.

"He's clean," she murmurs, almost abashedly,

"NO!" Julia barks spitefully. "Don't go there! You know it's not true! Is it what he told you? _Is it_?"

Cuddy just stands there, in front of her sister, looking her right in the eyes, but she clenches her jaw tight, refusing to speak.

"You can't be serious. Tell me you're not serious, Lise…"

"I just…" Cuddy finally says, looking down.

"Goddamnit, this is bullshit, and you know it. You, _better than anyone_, KNOW it!" Julia reminds her, intentionally poking a sharp stick where she wants it to hurt.

"Wilson says he is…"

"Wilson? _What_?..." Julia's eyes widen in complete stupefaction. "You mean you and Wilson talk about _him_?"

"Wilson is _my_ friend, too," she retorts bitterly, hurt by her sister's insinuation.

Julia's mouth falls agape and, within a few determined strides, she is standing in front of Cuddy and grabbing her by the sides of her arms.

"Lisa, listen to me," she says, drilling a hole into her sister's skull with a piercing gaze. "You need to do something. You understand me?"

Cuddy tries to free herself from her sister's grasp, but Julia tightens her fingers around her slender upper arms.

"It's been two years," she whispers to herself, sheepishly, tears welling up in her eyes.

She's tired, so tired. Because of all the fights she's fought; of all the needs and desires she had to suppress to focus on being the dignified victim everyone expect her to be, watching her every move, deciding on her behalf what choices she should make, encouraging her to be tougher. But she's tired; of remembering all the things from her past that made her who she was, who she was proud to be that she can't have anymore; tired of feeling compelled to numb herself and her needs because everyone keeps telling her she has to forget the past if she wants to carry on. She feels like a ghost. She feels like she is not allowed to let her mind wander for the slightest second while, sometimes, when she's alone at night, she wants to let it. She just wants to let go…

"You need to call the police," Julia goes on, determinedly. "You can't let him mess with your life again. You can't let that happen. If you don't do it, I will."

Her sister's threat acts like a jolt of electricity in Cuddy's numbed body. She wriggles forcefully and finally extricates herself from Julia's grasp. Instantly, she takes a few steps back.

"No!" She protests vehemently. "You're not going to do anything! He won't come near me again, anyway," she adds, after a pause, almost regretfully.

"How can you be so sure?"

"Because… I'm sure." Cuddy gulps, uneasy, and averts her gaze once more. She remembers her words, deliberately harsh and hurtful. She remembers his face when she said them. The pain in his eyes. "_Are we clear?_" She'd warned. "_Yes, perfectly clear._"

"What did he want?" Julia asks one more time, studying her sister's face.

Stubbornly, Cuddy lapses into silence again and it grates on Julia's nerves even more than it has before during their conversation. She can feel that something happened six weeks ago when House suddenly reappeared out of nowhere that undeniably shook her sister to the core. And not knowing what it is is the most infuriating, frustrating thing ever!

"How am I supposed to help you if you won't even talk to me?" She says, reproachfully.

Cuddy smirks bitterly and stares at her sister with weary eyes.

"You can't. Yes, you were there two years ago, and I'm sorry you had to live that, too, but what happened that day, happened to _me_. And you're _not me_, Julia. You don't understand how I feel now, you don't…" Her voice chokes on her last words and she bites her lips hard, to suppress the urge to cry she feels growing inside her.

"The DVD is finished!" Rachel chants happily, barging into the kitchen.

Instantly she freezes and looks alternatively at her mother and her aunt, with a worried face. She's just a five-year old little girl but it's impossible for her not to feel the heavy uneasiness that's floating in the air in that instant. Cuddy registers the apprehension on her daughter's face quite instantly, too, and she forces a reassuring smile, as she walks towards the little girl.

"Alright, pirate girl! So what do you want to do next?" she asks with a high-pitched voice, her best attempt at sounding joyful.

"I wanna play 'catch the match'," Rachel declares with a huge grin, already moving on from her previous fit of worry and grabbing her mother by the hand to drag her out of the kitchen with her.

Before she exits the room, Cuddy turns around and catches her sister's gaze on her. She still looks angry and frustrated, but what she spots behind Julia's eyes is mostly concern. And it makes her cringe to realize that, no matter how hard she tries to stand tall or make the right choices, this is what people always feel about her now.

…

* * *

**_A/N_**

_Again, thanks to all of you who posted a review on the previous chapter: lenasti16, freeasabird14, Abby, IHeartHouseCuddy, jaybe61, JLCH, Fran, linda12344, Alex, Oldsfan, HuddyGirl, paulac45, vicpei1, Raquel9, Boo's House, MystryGab, LapizSilkwood, and the guest that didn't leave a name…_

_You truly are the fuel that feeds my muse._

_Next chapter will bring back heavier angst… In a way, it's sort of the turning point in the story. Brace yourself!_

_I'll try to post it before the end of the week. In the meantime, I'm looking forward to reading your thoughts. Thank you all for visiting and reading this story._

_Have a great day ~ maya_


	7. Chapter 7

_Hi everyone, _

_So here's chapter 7. _

_I said it'd bring heavier angst but maybe 'angst' is not really the appropriate word, here. But it definitely is a turning point in the story and you'll probably want to throw things at me once you've read it. I won't spoil it for you any further so I'll let you all find out…_

_I hope you're still enjoying the ride._

_Thank you for being there and reading!_

* * *

**** I Will Always Choose You ****

**- Chapter 7 -**

Over the course of the last two years, she'd had more than one occasion to go back to Princeton for medical-related purposes. Being Chief of the Women's Health Clinical Research Center at Penn's required her to go meet her peers, once in a while, and deal with business matters, keep herself updated on the latest, most innovative procedures, purchase some new equipment for her staff, praise virtues of the protocols she was testing, and so on. She'd had more than one opportunity to go back there but, in two years, she'd scrupulously avoided doing it because she just couldn't bring herself to. Every time, she'd asked someone else to go. She'd always sent one of her best collaborators, trying not to think of her as a coward when she had, but convincing herself that she was more needed and useful in Philadelphia instead, while burying herself into the kind of work that could have easily been done by someone else.

And yet, when she'd received a call from the Head of Endocrinology at Princeton General a week ago, who had told her he would love to meet her and compare the results of her last research that she'd presented at that conference two months ago with his own, she'd known, right then, that she was going to accept.

Two years. Two years spent putting one rock on top of the other, to rebuild her life. Two years meticulously spent avoiding any emotional commitment, spent forgetting the past, keeping herself busy, focusing on her daughter's needs, on reassuring her family that everything was fine. Because everything _had_ to be fine. Two years, and she was almost there. And then, it had only taken twenty minutes in a parking garage for the first crack on the wall to appear.

And, nobody understood how it felt, or _why_… She'd known him for more than half her life. In a way, _who_ she was was what _he_ had made her become. She'd grown with him. She'd made the hardest decisions of her life _for_ him. He was there when she'd become a mother. She was there when he'd almost lost his mind. She'd tried to forget him and he'd tried to act like it didn't matter but those were just lies. Because she was who she was, and _he_ was what she wanted. And she'd loved him, like she'd never loved a man before or after him. So what was she supposed to do? _Erase_ that? Pretend that it had never happened? But then, what did it make her? What was left of _her_, if she just buried that somewhere and left it behind like it had never existed? Moving on didn't have to mean the same as forgetting. She couldn't understand _why_ everyone around her kept telling her that. How could she do it, anyway, when denying that _he_ was part of her life once just equaled denying her own existence somehow? How was she supposed to heal her wounds if she couldn't hold on to the very essence of the only woman that she'd known and learned to love and respect as herself? Healing, yes, but what for? To become who? Someone new, someone she never was?

No. Nobody understood how it felt, or _why_…

She was tired of defining herself by hatred. Tired of clinging to that feeling like it was the only fuel that gave her the energy to go about her days. She was tired of cultivating a grudge that belonged to the past and prevented her from moving onward. Hatred and grudge were like cancer: they were eating her inside when all she really wanted was to be in peace. Yes, she'd hated that man. Hated him with a passion, more violently than she'd ever thought she could be capable of hating anyone but, the love she'd once felt for him, it defined _her_, just as much. And, more than anything, what she needed to do was to reconcile herself with who she was, as a whole; even if what she'd once thought was the right decision to make had turned out to be a huge, painful mistake for her and had crushed everything that she'd once believed in, in the end it was her who'd once made it...

Her meeting with Randall in Princeton General was set early in the morning the next day so she had to drive there the evening before. She'd planned everything. She'd booked a hotel room near the hospital. Her mother was taking care of Rachel overnight. Around six, she'd arrived at her hotel. She'd gotten to her room, taken a shower, and then she'd flipped through the channels, while half-heartedly grabbing a bite. Outside, it was already dark and through the window of her room, she'd stared at the lights that were shining in the night behind the curtains of the hospital rooms across the avenue.

She can't explain why. She can't define that urge she'd felt out of the blue. She was there, staring at a city she used to know so well, at the grey shape of Princeton General hospital, a building that used to be familiar, even if she had never work there. She was thinking about the doctors and nurses working behind those walls. She was thinking that she could remember some of their faces, as she'd often gotten to meet them over the years and all of sudden, as irrational as it was, it had taken hold of her. That overwhelming need to go _there_.

Her sister was right, after all. She couldn't let House mess with her life again. She couldn't let that happen. How would she ever find peace, if everything that she'd worked so hard to get back, including her self-respect, could be shaken off by the twenty-minute appearance of a ghostly figure from her past? No, she was not going to let him haunt her, again. After all, she was over him. She was _over him_…

And just like that, she'd found herself there, standing in his hallway, just behind the door of his apartment.

It's been more than five minutes, now. Her palms are sweaty. She wipes them dry on the side of her jeans. Several times, she's raised her hand up to knock but she hasn't dared yet. She hears the sound of smooth jazz coming from inside his place. An old record she recognizes as one of his favorites. She can feel the agitated beats of her heart drumming in her chest. She feels dizzy. She takes a deep, quivering breath and once more, she lifts her hand up. And she knocks.

When the sound of someone knocking on his door resonates in his apartment, House is in his kitchen, standing in front of the stove and licking the content of a spoon, filled with a bite of the homemade sauce dish he's cooked for dinner. He glances at the clock on the wall and frowns. He puts the wooden spoon back inside the pan and hastily wipes his hands clean on his apron before limping heavily towards the door.

"I didn't know the smell of my osso bucco was so powerful it'd—" he teases, as he swings the door open.

But the words instantly die on his lips when he sees her. And she's about to leave.

"Hey," he exhales breathlessly as if he'd just run a race.

She freezes, her back to him, and he grips his door's handle forcefully, holding on to it to prevent him from losing balance.

Slowly, she turns around and bites her lip when she comes face to face with him. Her eyes wide with a mix of surprise and puzzlement, she stares at him in silence for some endless seconds.

"Hi," she finally whispers in a low voice, clutching and twisting her fingers together nervously in front of her midriff.

House just stands there, staring back at her with his mouth agape as he's unable to utter one single syllable.

"You expecting someone?" she asks shyly, looking away in embarrassment.

Her question seems to jolt him back to reality. He looks down at himself, sees his bare foot, partially covered by the hem of his worn-out jeans, then he notices the stains of tomato-flavored sauce on his apron. Hastily, he unties the lace behind his back to take it off and throws it away on top of his desk beside him.

"I… uh… no, I was just… cooking," he stutters, with a raspy voice, still not completely over the shock of seeing her stand at his doorsill. "You want to… you want to come in?"

He's dying to reach out his hand and take hers to tug her inside but he doesn't dare touch her so he stays rooted to his spot instead, silently praying for her to say 'yes' and encouraging her to do so by opening his door wider.

"I… I don't know," she confesses, looking down at her feet.

The whole room is spinning around him and House can feel his heart thump against his ribcage as he watches her hesitate and shift on her feet.

"We can stay here if you want but, after the customary greetings it sorta becomes a little awkward, don't you think?" he says cautiously, offering a tentative smile.

"Ok," she finally says, swallowing hard.

He follows her with his eyes as she walks past him, and doesn't fail to register the shiver that shakes her shoulders the moment she enters his place. She scans the living room, her arms wrapped around her and he studies her, still standing at the door, not knowing what to say or do, but somewhat feeling her unease, too. He can easily imagine what must be going through her mind in that instant, for he knows that feeling perfectly well himself. He's felt it too, from time to time, and still does, on certain days when every piece of furniture, every object in his apartment, every smell even, brings back old memories that he has of her, with him; memories that come crashing down on him when he least expects it.

And it feels a lot like now, actually, as seeing her standing between those familiar walls overwhelms him with a train of long lost emotions that cause the air to get caught in his lungs. He shuts the door of his apartment close slowly and clears his throat to try and calm his uneven breathing. The sound startles her and she turns around to look at him.

He stares at her fascinated, not daring to make a move, like he would stare at a bird perched on his window ledge, afraid of seeing it fly away from his grasp.

"Do you… do you want to drink something?" He asks clumsily. "I have this…" He points towards his kitchen, never letting her out of his sight.

"No thanks," she replies evenly.

He sighs, relieved to hear her turn down his offer. Had she said 'yes', he realizes he'd have needed to leave her to go to the kitchen and no doubt she'd have seized that opportunity to vanish before he'd have had a chance to hold her back. But she's really here, standing in front of him, and reality starts kicking in slowly.

"You came," he finally allows himself to acknowledge, bemused by the fact that it _is_ an actual truth he can say out loud without it sounding like one of his crazy, hopeless wishes.

"I'm not staying long," she immediately replies, as if to minimize the importance of her presence.

"But… you still came," he repeats, drinking her in with a longing gaze. "You _care._"

"No. I don't."

Of course. Even he can't quite wrap his head around the surreal possibility that she can, but at the same time, he can't help but hope that she does and he wants to cling to that hope more than anything else in the world right now.

"Yes, you care. I'm not saying that you care _about me_. But you cared enough about something to come… It's a start."

"It's not a start, House," she denies, almost right away. "I just… I don't want to see you anymore."

His eyes widen in astonishment as the irony of her statement doesn't get lost on him.

"Well, technically, you'd have easily gotten what you want by not coming here, today." he says, trying hard not to sound too sarcastic,

She sucks her lower lip into her mouth and averts her gaze. That's when he realizes he's been holding the door's handle inside his hand all this time. He lets go of it and cautiously takes a small step in her direction.

"Why did you come?" he asks with a low voice.

"I was in Princeton," she tells him, as if it explains everything. He frowns, puzzled and she smiles shyly, for the very first time since she's stepped inside his apartment.

Her smile.

"For work," she clarifies. "I... Well, it's just a meeting I have, I…"

"Still, it doesn't explain why you're _here_. I thought-"

He doesn't have time to finish his sentence because there's a brief knock on his door, quickly followed by the sound of the handle being twisted as someone is decidedly opening the door to enter his apartment. It takes only one second or two and then, Dominika is standing there, looking around her to search for House's presence. She catches sight of him quite instantly and smiles a mischievous, lopsided grin at him.

"Greg," she says, visibly not having registered Cuddy's presence yet, "I want talk with you about marriage. I have new proposition for you that-"

She stops, a look of puzzlement on her face, taken off guard by House's reaction. He's standing in front of her, pale as a ghost, panic written all over his features but he doesn't look at her. Instead, he's staring at something inside his living room, eyes wide with fear, like a wild, cornered animal. She turns to follow his gaze and spots the other woman in the room, who looks stunned and angry but above all, hurt like she's rarely seen anyone be before.

"Cuddy…" House whispers, raising his hand in her direction.

The sound of her name echoes into space like a desperate plea but Cuddy doesn't move. She looks everywhere but at him; everywhere but at _her_ while he can see her struggling to decide what the best dignified way to react is.

A million contradicting thoughts are racing in her head in that moment. What is she supposed to do anyway? Merely minutes before, she was telling House that she didn't care. And isn't that the truth? Yes, she _doesn't _care. She shouldn't even be surprised, or show any sign of disappointment. And yet, she can't ignore the pang that just hit her in the chest all the same. As forcefully as she tries, she can't hold back the salty tears that are gathering in her eyes. She feels like throwing up. And she clenches her fists along her thighs, so tightly that it hurts, as her nails dig into her palms. But she doesn't want to be affected. She can't allow herself to be. The room becomes blurry as she stands there, immobile, her breath heavy, and in the distance, yet so close to her, she hears House's voice, speaking to _his wife_.

"Get out," he demands, his voice icily cold.

"I'm sorry Greg, I didn't know you have visit. I just-"

"Get the fuck out!" He snaps. "I told you not to come back here."

"Ok, I go. It is bad time, I get it. I call you tomorrow," Dominika replies evenly, visibly unaffected by the awkwardness of the whole situation or the force of House's rejection.

Cuddy hears the sound of the door being shut and, almost simultaneously, she strides towards it, determined to leave this place, too, to get as far away from him as she can. House catches her by the wrist as she passes by him, calling out her name beseechingly and, even though she doesn't want to look at him, or listen to anything he has to say there's that boiling need inside her, uncontrollable and stronger than her will, that still makes her stop just as she's about to reach the door.

Her back is turned on him and her arm is stretched out behind her as he's still grabbing her by the wrist, neither tugging, nor squeezing, but just holding it in his hand, waiting. They speak at the same time, still not facing each other.

"Let me explain," he says.

"You lied to me," she says, more harshly than she wishes to sound.

She turns around to face him and he lets go of her wrist, silently staring at her, undeniably taken aback by her words but, by the tone of her voice even more.

"You said… you said she was out of your life," she states accusingly.

"And she is. She… was. She contacted me a few weeks ago. _She_, not the other way around. But it's only a matter of days until she's out of my life for good. She means nothing."

Cuddy puffs bitterly and closes her eyes, shaking her head in dismay. He takes a small step towards her and reaches out his hand to touch her face while her eyes are still closed but he stops, mid-air, before he actually dares to touch her. Dropping his arm along his thigh, he sighs heavily and she opens her eyes again to look at him.

"I don't need her," he confesses softly, with a voice full of regrets. "I need you, Cuddy. _You_, not her."

"No," she whispers, looking away.

"I didn't even know she was going to show up. I swear."

A single tear, round and crystal clear, rolls down the side of her cheek.

"Why do I care, anyway?" she says, almost to herself.

She bites her lower lip to hide her distress. She shouldn't be here. She shouldn't let herself be hurt again. She shouldn't let herself _feel_.

"Yes, why do you care?" he asks with a gravelly voice and, as desperate as it sounds, there's an unmistakable hint of hope in his tone.

They're standing so close to each other but it feels like there's still an ocean between them. Cuddy raises her chin up and stares at him, locked in a silence that terrifies him, and yet holds so many promises at the same time.

"I don't care," she finally says.

She tries to appear resolute but her voice is unsure and she looks so beautiful, it hurts him not to be able to wrap her in his arms and gently rock her in his embrace.

"Why are you here, then? Why did you come? Tell me," he prompts her softly when she still doesn't answer.

"I don't want you to love me, House," she tells him out of the blue. "Your love is needy. It's suffocating. And… it scares me."

"Cuddy, no… I…" He comes tentatively closer, just one small step and heaves a deep, resigned sigh. "Please, don't be scared. You've got no reason to. I've changed-"

"How do I know that you've changed?"

"You don't. Not until you give me a chance to prove to you that I have. I'm clean. You were right, Cuddy. I need to do that for myself. And I will. But please, don't shut me out. Not now," he pleads.

She stares intensely at him and her silence feels like torture to him. She looks so torn and so confused, he is drawn to her, irrepressibly and he takes another step, the last, the one that brings him just mere inches away from her. She doesn't move. He can hear the sound of her breathing, ragged and wobbling and her eyes bore into him but that's not fear he reads behind them. Just the overwhelming struggle that she's fighting against herself.

"There's just you and me, Cuddy. No more lies."

Faltering, he leans closer and rests his forehead against her forehead.

"I could never hurt _you_," he whispers throatily.

"I know," she exhales.

Ever so slowly, almost as delicately as if he were touching the most fragile porcelain, he lays a kiss on the corner of her mouth and she doesn't push him away. He kisses her again, just sucking her upper lip between his lips softly. And again, on the pulp of her lower lip. His heart is racing in his chest and he's losing his breath, but he can't stop. As long as it will last, as long as she'll let him, as long as she'll allow him to relish the taste of her, he won't.

He kisses her once more, covering her mouth with his own and this time, she kisses back tentatively. She nibbles at his lower lip and it overwhelms him. He inhales deeply through his nose and cups the sides of her face in his hands and he dives in, devouring her lips and pushing his tongue inside her mouth. The sensation is so unique, just like he remembers it felt, but savoring it again is mind-blowing. His breath accelerates and he slides his hands from her face to her neck, around her shoulders and down her back and he wraps his arms around her, he envelops her completely in his embrace.

She touches the sides of his face with her fingertips and he can feel her push on her tiptoes then slide down again alongside his body. She grips his shoulders not to fall and he holds her tight against him. They break away from their kiss, panting and he stares at her in wonderment. And she stares back at him, dazed. Slowly he relaxes his embrace and pulls away from her, holding out his hand and inviting her to take it.

"Come," he says, breathless, his voice barely above a whisper.

She looks down at his hand, then up at him and then she gives him her hand. She lets him guide her down the hallway, toward his bedroom. On their way there, he suddenly stops and turns around to look at her. He doesn't quite believe that this is happening, for real, or that she will follow him without changing her mind so to make sure he hasn't dreamed the whole thing, he takes her in his arms again and backs her against the wall, instantly claiming her lips again. She kisses him back, and when they cannot breathe anymore, he pulls away and buries his face in her neck, rubbing his nose behind her ear.

"I've missed you so much," he blows along her skin before pulling apart and taking her hand inside his again.

She feels like she's in a haze, somehow. Standing in front of him by his bed, she is unable to think. Or maybe she doesn't want to. Everything seems new and terrifying, but everything looks so familiar, so reassuring and so _comforting_ at the same time. She lets herself go. For the first time in months, she is letting go.

House drinks her in, reverently, and he slowly undoes the buttons of her shirt, one after the other, punctuating the process by gentle kisses on her neck and in the hollow of her collarbone. She closes her eyes and she stops thinking about anything other than what's happening here, and now. The sensation of his lips on her skin makes her heart swell with longing aches so powerful, she can't remember when the last time she's experienced such a sweet, addictive torture was. He takes his clothes off, never letting his eyes off of her, and then he returns his focus on her, finishing undressing her at a slow pace and relishing every inch of her silky skin that he's slowly uncovering.

They lie down on his bed and they kiss again, almost shyly. His lips brush her lips, tentatively and he takes deep breaths, while he finally lets his hand slide along her sides. The warm contact of her bare skin on his palm sends jolts of pleasure through his nerves and it feels as if his whole body suddenly awakens from an endless numbness he thought he was doomed to be imprisoned in forever. But she frees him. She unchains all the ties that had kept him locked-in all this time and there's nothing more exhilarating than the liberating power of that mighty sensation right now.

He pushes himself up on his forearms, pulling away from her face and, excruciatingly slow, he starts exploring her body with his lips and hands.

"You're so beautiful," he moans against her torso, rubbing his nose along the plumpness of her breasts.

He takes them into his mouth, one after the other, delicately sucking the areola between his lips then he slides lower, trailing kisses on her midriff, and the perfect guitar-shaped curve of her waist. There, on the left side of her abdomen, just under her ribcage he spots the whiter edges of the scar that was left after her kidney surgery. He freezes and closes his eyes, crushed by the vision of what will always remain a painful reminder of his inability to be there for her when she was counting on him the most. Forcing his eyes open again, he stares at the thin line and swallows back the lump in his throat. Then he leans down and covers the scar with his lips. Several times he kisses it softly, inhaling deeply through his nose.

"I will never let you down again, Cuddy," he whispers with a wobbling voice, overwhelmed by a wave of emotions he has never really allowed himself to tame. "I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry." He adds, kissing her scar again. "I love you."

She squirms underneath him and shifts to the side, out of his mouth's reach, before touching his shoulder with her hands.

"Please don't talk," she pleads, with a broken voice.

He looks up and in the pale light he can see her eyes glistening with tears. Immediately, a pang of sorrow tightens his chest and he climbs up to her face again, gently cupping her cheeks in the palms of his hands.

"You're right," he says soothingly, kissing her eyelids and tasting the salty taste of a tear on his lips. "I'm sorry. It's over. You're here now."

Cautiously, heedful not to squash her beneath him, he slowly nestles his hips against her hips and he kisses her on the mouth, with a greedier need, biting her lips demandingly to claim access to her tongue. There's a kind of melancholy in the way she responds to his kiss, opening her lips and letting him taste her unreservedly.

"It's over," he repeats, blowing the words between her lips. "I can make it right, now."

She arches the small of her back, because the past, or even the future, uncertain as it is, doesn't matter anymore in that instant. There's only one call that she hears, and it's the one his body is sending to hers, as he presses down on her pelvis and positions himself between her folds. She spreads her thighs a little wider and bends one of her legs at the knee, resting her heel on the back of his thigh and then, she feels him enter inside her, slowly.

He gasps and buries his face in her neck as he pushes his full length inside her. When he's sheathed deep within her, he stops moving and she feels his fingers clutch her hips tightly and, his face still buried in her nape, he breathes out her name, in awe.

She wraps her arms around his broad shoulders and he starts rocking in and out of her, languorously. There's no wild, possessive passion in the way he is creating their dance, just the unmistakable and unwavering force of his love for her.

She can _feel_ it everywhere inside her. There, in his arms, she finally reconciles herself with the memory of the woman that she used to know as the one that once loved that man so deeply. The one that _loves_ him…

No. She can't. This is wrong, she thinks closing her eyes. And yet, it feels so _right_. There's so much tenderness in his gestures, so much care in the way he holds her, caresses the side of her thigh, in the way he kisses her mouth; so much longing in the way he moans her name and whispers sweet words in her ears.

She tilts her head back and he traces the line of her jaw with his lips.

"It feels so good… Tell me you feel it too, Cuddy…" he says, panting.

"Yes," she replies, abandoning herself completely to the sensation that's growing inside her.

When the first waves of orgasm start taking hold of her, he holds her shivering body in his arms and he thrusts faster inside her a few times to follow her pleasure with his own release. He collapses on top of her and, breathless, covers her face with kisses. Then he rolls off of her and encloses her in his embrace, resting his chin atop her head and stroking her spine up and down softly. She pecks him on his torso a few times and snuggles up against him.

Just one more minute, she tells herself. One more minute of his warmth.

They fall asleep shortly after, exhausted by their lovemaking and the overwhelming, unexpected emotions that they've just experienced together probably even more. When she wakes up, House is still holding her in his arms but his grasp has loosened a little and she wiggles to set herself free. It awakens him quite instantly and he opens his eyes, staring at her intensely, a smile drawn on his lips.

He looks peaceful and in his gaze, she sees the longing and the absolute fulfillment and, when he leans down to kiss her, she can't resist, drawn by the power of his desire for her. They kiss lazily at first, then more fervently within each nibble and tongue stroke and soon their bodies long to recreate that connection, as their hands pull and grasp and roam each other with growing urgency.

They make love again but this time, Cuddy takes control and rolls on top of him, straddling him and pressing her palms against his torso to hold him still as she rides him with an almost selfish need to seek after her own pleasure.

After the second round, she dozes off again, spooned against him, her back alongside his torso and his arms wrapped around her shoulders. She didn't want to, but the feeling, though confusing and perhaps frightening, is too blissful for her to let her brain process it just yet. She's just delightfully numb and a little sore and all she wants is to live in the present moment without thinking of the aftermath.

The touch of his fingertips lightly caressing the side of her arm pulls her out of her slumber. She stretches in his arms, half-asleep, and he kisses the round shape of her shoulder then tugs her closer against him, moaning contentedly in her hair.

"Stay right here," he tells her, the sound muffled by her curls. "I'm gonna grab us something to eat."

"No, you don't have to…" she starts, trying to turn around inside his arms to face him.

"Shhh, don't move!" he orders playfully. "I'm pretty sure you need to eat with all the calories you just burnt. Plus, I have an excellent osso bucco you're just dying to try."

"House…" she says, propping herself up on her elbows as he gets up and walks to her side of the bed, tying the robe's belt he's just put on.

"I won't take 'no' for an answer," he replies, like a stubborn child who's set his mind on something. He smiles fondly and leans down to kiss her temple. "I want to do that for you," he whispers softly against her hairline.

He straightens up and looks down at her, his eyebrows arched challengingly, as if he dares her to prevent him from doing it.

When he's left the room and Cuddy finds herself alone, seated in his bed, the reality of what's just happened suddenly starts dawning on her. She shivers and tucks the sheet under her chin, hunching her shoulders and scanning the room in bafflement.

What has she done? Why? What crazy miracle does she expect out of this exactly? That everything will be solved and forgotten over one night because, and she's just received the proof once again, their physical chemistry is one of the best she's ever had? Is that even a valid reason she should consider? Can it be enough?

Yet, there's no denying the fact that it felt good. _She_ felt good. She isn't aware of it, or maybe she just refuses to admit it to herself but, deep down, she craved that connection. At least, part of her still craves it. And isn't that the secret reason that has drawn her to him in the first place? She so needed to feel whole again. She needed someone to make her feel desired and unique. She needed to exist, as a woman, in the eyes of a man again. And who, more than House, could make her feel like that? Being in his arms, enveloped by him, possessed by him, was a feeling so intense, she'd never experienced it so plainly with anyone else. He'd always had that irresistible might when he was claiming her, even when it was in the gentlest way, that incredible knowledge of her that always brought her to the exact place where she longed to be…

But does she really want to go there? What good can come out of it? They had sex and now what? She's been there before and she knows what awaits her at the end of the road. She _knows_. She can't let House back in her life again when the price to pay will unquestionably be pain and hurt and devastation.

She closes her eyes, forcefully trying to chase the images of him, so tender and loving, away from her mind. It _felt _right but, in the end, it was wrong. She can't let her feelings take control. She has to be responsible, if not for her, at least for her daughter. House is an addict. Yes, he is clean, but how long before he's going to fall off the wagon again? What tangible proof does she have that he's changed?

"_You won't until you'd have given me a chance to prove to you that I have._" She hears his words again. She remembers the flame that burnt in his eyes when he said them: hope.

He is married! The voice shouts in her head. What the hell is she thinking? Why has she come here? Everyone expects her to forget him, move on with her life and settle down with a nice, handsome guy who will cherish her and take care of her… And it can never be House.

Looking everywhere around her, Cuddy feels her chest tighten. Maybe, those few hours have felt like being inside a safe bubble, one that she's created just for her. But now the bubble has just burst.

She gets up and hastily picks up her clothes. She gets dressed, avoiding to look back at the bed, where the creased sheets still bear witness to their lovemaking. Resigned, she goes back to the living room and heads to the door. The closer she gets, the more distinctively she can hear the sound that comes from his kitchen. He's _whistling_. It's random but there's unmistakable joy in the tune he's humming. She hesitates a second, looking in the kitchen's direction and then he appears in the room, carrying a tray and hurrying back to his bedroom. When he spots her, it takes him less than a second to register the fact that she's fully dressed, and above all, that she's standing by the door.

"What are you doing?" he asks, putting the tray on his coffee table.

"I'm going."

"Oh, come on. The night's still young… if you know what I mean…" he says, grinning from ear to ear and playfully waggling his eyebrows.

"I have an appointment early tomorrow morning. I have to go back to my hotel," she replies, unresponsive to his teasing banter.

"Why don't you just ditch those morons and stay with me instead?"

She closes her eyes and sighs heavily, a little bit unnerved.

"I can't. It's called being a responsible adult," she says, looking him in the eyes again.

Her voice sounds a bit cold and House gulps, before narrowing his eyes at her, quizzically.

"Alright. Ok," he amends, forcing the optimism in his voice. "You go there, do your thing, and then I'll pick you up in the evening and—"

"You're not 'picking me up,' House."

"Fine. If you wanna be a big girl and take a taxi, I'll wait for you to join me here then."

She lets out a quiet laugh and shakes her head.

"I'm going home, tomorrow," she clarifies.

Somehow, he can already feel it coming, irrepressibly, but his brain just refuses to process it. He shuts his eyes close, briefly, and sucks in a sharp intake of breath through his nose.

"Ok. FYI, you're not making it very cripple-friendly," he tries to joke, "but, I'll take my bike and drive to Philly, if that's what you want. See? I'll meet you at your place…. or somewhere else, if you prefer. I'll book a hotel room, I can-"

He's just reeled off the words in one breath as if he's desperately holding on to the hopeless hope that what they just shared happened for a reason and that the icily cold sensation he feels creeping up inside his whole body is going to fade away because she's going to laugh and be in his arms again any second now.

"You don't get it, House. I'm leaving and there is no me coming back, or you visiting me in Philadelphia after that."

"You don't really mean that, right?" he says, swallowing hard.

"Yes, I do. I'm not coming back to see you. Tonight or any other night and you're not coming to see me, either."

"I don't understand. Maybe you need to explain to me what just happened then, coz I must have misread the pretty obvious signs, what with you moaning and panting while we were screwing each other senseless just half an hour ago!"

Upon hearing his words, Cuddy cringes and House registers the hurt on her face, instantly feeling lame and stupid for being such a jerk when all he wants is for her to tell him he hasn't dreamed what happened. He felt it. He knows. He just needs to hear her say it was real…

Within a few strides, he walks round his couch and comes near her, standing in front of her, expectantly.

"Cuddy, wait," he says, throatily. "I didn't mean that. What we had tonight was… I loved every second of it. And it matters, right? You can't leave now. Not after what happened. _You came back_. That was for a reason. Tell me that was for a reason."

He stares intensely at her, searching for an answer behind her eyes. His hand gently cups the side of her face in his palm and for a splitting second that vanishes too soon, he feels her lean into his touch but then, she turns her head the other way and seizes his hand, slowly guiding it back along his thigh.

"Yes, House. I told you why. You… We can't see each other anymore. It's over. We're over. We were already over two years ago."

"But… you came back," he repeats, confusion spreading across his face.

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have come."

"No. No, no, Cuddy, please. Don't say that. You _know_ it's not true. You came because what we have means something. You know it does. You felt it, just like I did."

"No House, there's nothing," she says, her lips trembling. "You and I… us. It can't happen."

"Don't give up on me, now Cuddy," he says, his voice pleading. "Don't do this. Please. I _love_ you."

"There's another man in my life, House. His name is Mark. We're… engaged," she says, as tears start welling up in her eyes.

House's mouth drops open in shock. Aghast, he forcefully rubs his forehead and tries to swallow back the acidic taste that invades his mouth.

"No. This is a joke. You're not serious, right? Why do you do this, Cuddy? Why did you come if you were going to do this to me now?"

She covers her mouth with a trembling hand and a moan gets squeezed in the back of her throat.

"I shouldn't have come. I'm sorry," she repeats, bursting into tears, and swiftly turning the handle to open the door of his apartment.

House watches as she practically runs out, literally rooted to the spot and unable to make the slightest move. This is a misunderstanding, he tries to tell himself. But even he can't hold on to that irrational hope for too long. And even though he still can't process it, it's impossible not to face the horrible truth: she's gone.

He was doing everything right. He was trying so hard to prove himself worthy of her, and she left him, just the same. Again.

He stares, distraught, outside the door of his apartment at the empty hallway of the building, and excruciating memories of another moment from the past, yet still so vivid, invade his mind. He's brought back a little over two years ago when one stupid move had cost him his relationship with Cuddy. Even if it had devastated him by then, somehow she had a reason. Only this time, he can't comprehend what he's done to deserve that. Why he must feel so much pain, once more, when he's doing his best to redeem himself.

Across the street, Cuddy opens her car with a trembling hand. She sits behind the steering wheel and she feels a powerful, crashing wave overwhelm her. She covers her mouth with her hand and a gasping sob starts shaking her.

She thought it would be like taking the band aid off an old, healed scar but actually, it had just felt like ripping it off a still opened wound.

...

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_**A/N**_

_Thanks to everyone who's read and reviewed the last chapter of this story: IHeartHouseCuddy, JLCH, Oldsfan, jaybe61, lenasti16, reader, Abby, , linda12344, bebehuddy, Alex, HuddyGirl, Boo's House, LapizSilkwood, paulac45, Faby, MystryGab, Paula and the (clumsy) guest that didn't leave a name, though I know who she is… ;P_

_I am incredibly grateful for your support and the interest you show in this story._

_I know this is painful but the journey is not over. Like I said, this was a turning point in the story and, although it might not seem like it, I want it to be a catalyst, somehow, that will unearth the true feelings buried underneath the struggles…_

_Also (to freeasabird14, and to all) YES, and of course, this story will not end in devastation and pain! When I first decided to write this (a long time ago) it never was my intention to do it if it was not going to be to bring House and Cuddy back together in the end. :)_

_I'll try to post next chapter before the end of the week (I'm back to work and really busy until Thursday, so it's kinda impossible for me to write before the week-end)_

_Until then, have faith! And thank you again, so much, for visiting and reading… and reviewing this story!_

_Have a great day ~ maya_


	8. Chapter 8

Hi everyone,

I'm sorry for the wait since the last chapter. I've been very busy lately. Not that I'm trying to find myself excuses, but that's the truth. I sadly have to accept that writing becomes much more complicated when you don't have as much time as you'd wish to do just that…

Anyway, here's the new part. I hope you'll like it. I think this one echoes the previous chapter in another quite significant way… But I'll let you be the judge of that! :)

"_What you want, you run away from. What you need, you don't have a clue. What you've accomplished makes you proud, but you're still miserable." – 'No More Mr. Nice Guy'_

* * *

**** I Will Always Choose You ****

**- Chapter 8 -**

_This is never going to end, is it?_

_All this time, I thought I was making progress. All this time, I thought it didn't hurt anymore. I kept telling myself that I was safe, that I was over you, that you didn't matter… But you…_

_It was a mistake. I should never have come. And I'm sorry. Yes, it was stupid and selfish and I thought… I really thought I'd moved on. But, at the same time, I thought I needed this to get closure. I've lost you, too, House. Can't you see that? I had to deal with that, too! I had to get over that loss. You wrecked everything and it felt like I didn't even have the right to keep my memories anymore. I've changed so many things in my life this past two years. I've sacrificed so much. And you forced me to. You left me no choice. I just needed… I just needed to _**see**_. I just needed to prove to myself that the feelings were gone. It's always been about you and your pain and how you feel, but what about me? What about my feelings?_

_After you showed up in the parking at my workplace, I couldn't stop thinking about you. I couldn't get you out of my head. Is that what you want to know? Is that what you want me to say? Yes, you reappeared, out of nowhere, and it shook me to the core. What do you think? That I can erase you completely from my life just like that? That it's as easy as tearing a page out of a book? You're the whole book, House! The good and the bad, and the horrible, every page… And it's not fair. No, it's not fair. Because I don't want that. I just don't need it._

_Fuck, I'm supposed to be angry! Because that's what I need to cling to not to fall. Anger is the only feeling I've really learned to tame, the one I'm not too much afraid of. I need anger to protect me from what I don't have the energy to deal with anymore. And I don't have the energy to deal with _**you**_. I called Wilson a few weeks ago and I yelled. You made me yell at him because I thought he'd told you where to find me. But he hadn't, had he? It was you all along, just you, who had decided you suddenly had to find me. Why did you do it? You came back into my life and you made me wonder about you, when I had finally stopped doing that. I had stopped thinking about you! Yelling at Wilson was a pretext. Deep down, I knew it wasn't his fault. I just needed to ask him things, about you… I just needed to know. Yes, you made me _**need** _to ask. But God, I swear I didn't want to. I'd promised myself I wouldn't let myself wonder, ever again. The last time Wilson told me about you was when you got out of jail. Jail, House. The place you went to because of what you did to me. So I didn't ask because I care. No. Why would it matter anyway? It's just that, I couldn't help it. I asked Wilson where you lived and he told me you'd kept your apartment. You destroyed everything I had and you, you still live in the same place you always had. Do you not see the irony in that? You kept your place when I had to give up mine. You still have your job when I had to resign from mine. You still have your life, perfectly in order, and mine is a…_

_It's not right. Why should I always be the one who has to pay the price? _

_When I came to your place yesterday, it overwhelmed me. Everything in that goddamned apartment of yours is exactly how I remembered it was. _**Everything.**_ Even you… You were there surrounded by all those familiar objects and piece of furniture, your piano, the couch, your bed… and I thought what am I doing here? I don't belong there. I don't know why I came. All I know is that I had to see. But it was a mistake. And I can't, I just can't make that same mistake over and over again._

_You are still married to that… whore, and you'd told me she was out of your life but she showed up. She was there. She came in and she didn't even knock. She just came in. Do you have any idea what it felt like to stand there, in your living room, and make eye contact with her? What do you expect from me? Do you want to hear me say that I hate her? That knowing she's your wife makes me sick to my stomach? Yes, I hate her! I can't stand the idea of her being in that place, your place, the place where you and I…_

_We made love in that apartment for the first time again after twenty years but you married her there. We laughed and we shared secrets in that apartment but you made me break up with you there. You played music for me on your piano in that apartment. Do you remember those nights? The music, your piano… and us? Because I do. And it hurts. We had good memories there, together, and you threw them all down the drain. You spat on them like they didn't mean a thing to you. For every beautiful moment, you added another one, unbearable memory to erase the good ones we had. Because that's what you wanted, wasn't it? You wanted to make 'us' unbearable. _

_So why do you need me, now?_

_I don't understand. I've struggled so hard to convince myself that what we had didn't mean a thing, either. I did what you expected. _**You**_ expected that. You got what you needed, right? I was out of your life. And you were out of mine. And it was fine. But then, you had to screw it up again because that's what you do: you screw up. You want one thing but when you have it, you ruin it. And once you've ruined it, you realize you need it back. And if, and when you get it back, you push it away. You'll push _**me**_ away, House. Just like you always do… I don't want to play that yo-yo game anymore. Hating you felt more comfortable. At least, it was the right thing to do. But I managed to screw up even that. How pathetic am I? Yes, we had sex. I let you kiss me. I let you touch me and hold me in your arms. And it felt good. Of course it felt good. But, after everything you've done to me, after all the pain you've caused me, I should have been able to stand before you and feel nothing. Nothing is safe. Nothing doesn't have to mean anything. No more anger, no more regret, no nothing. But I'll never get there. I'll never have nothing… You make nothing impossible. Because there's always gonna be something with you, something you can't ignore, something you can't dismiss. I stood there, in front of you, and there was that something, again. I don't fucking know what that is. But more than anything else, I don't fucking want to know! And I hate myself for letting that something matter…_

_This was not supposed to happen. I didn't come to your place to have a good-bye fuck. We said good-bye a long time ago already. And there was nothing sweet and tender about it. So you have no right to give me sweet and tender, now. You can't look at me with those eyes. You can't speak those words to me. Don't do that. Don't make promises you can't keep. What makes you think I'm interested in hearing them anyway? _

_My sister is right. I can't let you mess with my life again. And if she knew I was at your place last night or worse, what happened while I was there, she would surely have me committed in a psychiatric hospital. And she'd probably be right. Because this is insane. _**I**_ am insane. How can I be so stupid, when I know what being near you will do to me? I have a kid. I have a job in another city. I can't let that happen. It doesn't matter how good it feels to make love to you. It never was our problem anyway. But sex isn't everything. If it was, maybe we'd still be together. You wouldn't have crashed your car into my home and everything would be different. But it's not. I broke up with you, and you ran your car into my house. We did that to each other. So maybe I'm not angry anymore, maybe you forgave me but it doesn't change anything because this will always be there, between us. For Wilson, for my daughter, for my family, this is what we did. Whenever I dare mention your name, everyone thinks I'm crazy. I asked Wilson about you the other day and, even over the phone, I could feel his unease. When I told my sister I'd seen you, her first reaction was to tell me that I should have called the police. And when I told her I knew you wouldn't have hurt me, she looked at me like I had lost my mind. And maybe I have. Because it's so fucking hard for me to do what everyone else wants me to do, when it should be so easy…_

_I lied to you. I'm not engaged. There really is a Mark, though, and we dated for a while. He's a very nice guy. He's handsome. He's kind. He's successful. Julia liked him a lot, obviously. My mother was not as enthusiastic, when is she ever anyway, but she approved of him, too. You see, Mark is exactly what I need. What everyone wishes __for me. So I tried. Mark and I started seeing each other not long after I moved to Philadelphia. Everything was new for me then, your trial had ended, and I was… a mess. Rachel had nightmares almost every night. Trying to fit in in a new job, in a new hospital was sucking all the energy out of me. And Mark, well Mark was extremely patient, and very thoughtful. He was there to listen to me. He reassured me when I had doubts. He helped me get settled. At that time, everyone was tiptoeing around me like I was this bomb threatening to go off; like I could have a nervous breakdown any minute, but Mark, he didn't judge me. I hadn't been very specific about my past so he thought I was just this new single mom in town and he didn't ask questions. I still heard the hushed conversations he and Julia had together sometimes but I pretended not to notice the worried look on their faces. I just let Mark take care of me and it felt comfortable. We dated for six months. We were almost living together. Rachel's nightmares had subsided. Mark and she got along ok. More precisely, she tolerated him. You see, after you and I broke up, Rachel cried a lot. She really liked you, House. And after you… left, she had a hard time giving her trust to another man. I thought it was just a passing phase, that it would take time for them to bond, that it was just a natural reaction. But… one day, she and Mark were playing 'Feed The Monkey' together, and Rachel suddenly threw a tantrum because Mark wouldn't give her a cheese doodle each time she fed the monkey right. Mark was a bit startled. I tried to calm Rachel down and then she said: "House gave Rachel doodles when we played!" And… _**I **_started to cry._

_The truth is, Mark is nice and thoughtful and handsome and exactly what I should wish for but he's not you. He owns several real estate agencies in Pennsylvania and when I came home in the evenings and told him about a new protocol we were testing, or the latest file I was working on, he always smiled fondly at me, like he was trying hard to show me he was proud, but I could see there was no excitement in his eyes. All the magic behind solving a case, or giving your patient what they want, that moment when you know you've found the solution to their problems, he didn't get it… When my mother came over for lunch every other Sundays and started her usual, judgmental speech about how I was too much like this and not enough like that as a mother, or a girlfriend, or a doctor, he would nod embarrassingly at her and pat me empathically on the lap. One day, I laughed and told him I wished someone would drug her afternoon tea and he said that wasn't funny. And I didn't know what to say because he's right. Who thinks drugging their mom is something funny? _

_When we made love, I kept telling myself that it didn't matter if I didn't get off every time, because Mark was tender and gentle and he was doing everything right. I told myself it was me. I tried to convince myself it would take time before I would feel good in another man's arms. But then, I never felt it… But it's not just sex or those dirty things I loved to hear you say to me then that I knew Mark would never dare tell me. It's not just that… It's that goddamned pirate cartoon DVD that Rachel keeps calling her House DVD, and God knows there's not a week that goes by without her asking to watch it at least once… It's that blues tune on the piano that suddenly starts playing on the radio and makes me want to turn it off, not to have to explain why I suddenly feel like crying. It's the irrepressible, spontaneous urge to say: I bet you hope one day to live in a house like that, when Mark insisted on making me visit a huge mansion, one day, to show me what kind of properties his agencies were__ dealing with and the irrational sadness I felt to hear him say that it was the last place he wanted to live in because he hated that kind of houses. It's not just the sex. It's all those little things, every day, that kept reminding me that he wasn't you…_

_I just couldn't do it. _

_I broke up with Mark a little over six months ago. Of course, Julia thinks I made the biggest mistake of my life when I let him go but that's how it is. I'm stuck, House. How do you forget the most incredible man you've ever known? Sometimes I feel like I'm thrown back three years ago when I'd had this urge to come to your apartment in the middle of the night, only this time I know how the story ends. What I want, you can't give it to me anyway. Yes, I lied to you. There's no man in my life right now. I don't need anyone. I can deal with myself alone. I can handle my job. I can take care of my daughter. I can even listen to my mom tell me I'm just a huge disappointment to her because I can't be the perfect, Jewish daughter she'd like me to be. But I just don't want to get hurt anymore. Not by you. It was a mistake to come. I'm sorry. I don't know what I wanted. Maybe I just needed to tell you I'm not mad anymore. Mark was a pretext. I lied to you because I needed you to hate me so you would let me go. _

_So go ahead, House, hate me. Isn't that the only right thing to do, anyway, now that we both know how the story ends? _

# # # # # # #

She stares at the pages on her notepad on which she's spent the last few hours writing. It's the middle of the night and she can't sleep. Just yesterday, she was in his arms, warm and strong, and now being in her cold, empty bed makes her feel the void even more vividly. So she's writing. Just like she's been doing since he first reappeared in her life and words have become the only release she's found to prevent her from screaming.

She looks one last time at all the pages she's filled over the past weeks, and she folds them, methodically, before putting them inside an envelope. And then, slowly she writes:

Gregory House

519 Morehall St

Apt. 221B

Princeton, NJ 08540

She doesn't think twice about what she's doing. She just needs to do it because it's the only way she knows how to let go. And if there's one thing her tired, aching, sleep-deprived body tells her right now is that she _has to_ let go.

(...)

* * *

**A/N**

A very heartfelt **thank you** to everyone who's read and reviewed the last chapter of this story: IHeartHouseCuddy, reader, Suzieqlondon, Do YOU care (yes, I do…), lenasti16, LapizSilkwood, JLCH, Abby, Alica1990, housebound, Huddy4ever, jaybe61, Oldsfan, piena, freeasabird14, HuddyGirl, linda12344, jayfukae Alex, Faby, bebehuddy, Mrs. Jakubowicz, vicpei1, PrincetonBlues, paulac45, huddy-marie Boo's House, bere, oc7ober (yes, your scarf is AWESOME!) and the guest that didn't leave a name…

Also, a big thanks to the people who've sent me PMs or emails and shared their feelings with me about this story, especially to MystryGab, who's travelling right now but whose kind words on the last chapter mean a lot to me. A special thanks to my dear friend Freya, too, because she stands on a pinnacle of greatness, much more than Tim Tams do, even though they're to die for… ;P

Thanks to everyone who's favorited this story or me as an author and has read it, up until today. Well, of course, I'd love to hear from you, guys but the interest you show in my story really touches me a lot.

A little clarification about the timeline (though maybe after this chapter, it feels more obvious): I've tried, as much as possible, to add clues in every chapter that indicates how much time passes between each event. So, logically, it's all there… But to sum up: this story starts shortly after Chase got stabbed in "Nobody's Fault." Two weeks pass until House goes to meet Cuddy in the parking garage. That same day, Cuddy writes down her feelings and lets her anger out. When House shares his feelings, it's been a month since he's clean (two weeks after he met Cuddy in Philadelphia.) That's when he evokes Chase's return and Dominika visiting him at the hospital (which I think is approximately the show's timeline for "Man Of The House.") Wilson and House at the bar is right after (he tells Wilson he wants to divorce Dominika and refused her 30,000 offer). Then Cuddy talks with her sister and she says she saw House six weeks ago (which means House, by then, has been clean for two months.) Then at least another week passes before she goes to Princeton (the call she received from Randall is a week before she comes to House's apartment, and after she's talked with her sister) so what Julia and Cuddy say in the kitchen about Mark happened before what Cuddy tells House. And in this chapter, Cuddy writes her confused feelings before posting them to House the day after she went to his apartment… Well, I don't know if that makes it more understandable, but actually, if you have a doubt what I can tell is that the story always goes onward (except of course, when there're flashbacks, but they're only in the chapters written in the first person)

I'll try to post the next chapter asap. Probably next week-end… Meanwhile, thank you for taking the time to read.

Have a great day ~ maya


	9. Chapter 9

_Hi everyone!_

_Sorry it took me so long to post this chapter. No major catastrophe, just real life getting in the way and keeping me busy way more than I'd have wanted... Yeah, the excuse is as boring as it is real. Sorry._

_Anyway, here's the new chapter. I hope you'll like it. Clues to keep up with the timeline are in there, but in short, in case some of you wonder: this takes place __**after**__ Cuddy sent the letter, but obviously __**before**__ House has received it…_

_All in good time… all in good time. ;P_

"_The shattering of a heart when being broken is the loudest quiet ever."_

* * *

**** I Will Always Choose You ****

**- Chapter 9 -**

"House? HOUSE? I know you're in there!"

Wilson has been banging on his friend's apartment door almost incessantly over the past minute. But House doesn't feel like answering, or even less getting up to open to his friend.

"For Christ's sake, open that damn door!" the oncologist says reproachfully, knocking again. "Don't make me smash it…" There's a brief silence following the lame threat, as if Wilson thought it alone was enough to make House budge. Which, of course, it isn't. Instead, House sighs and keeps staring in front of him at the various objects that lie on his coffee table.

Then, probably suddenly remembering about the spare key above the doorjamb, something House sincerely thought he'd have used way earlier, Wilson slides it inside the lock. "Fine," he says, as he finally opens the door, "I'm coming in."

The place is plunged into darkness and, apart from the faint yellow lights that come from the street lamps on the sidewalk and shine through the windows, all Wilson can see is shadows. A little disoriented, he narrows his eyes to try and adjust to the dimness in the room and instantly reaches for the light switch beside the door. When the chandelier's light comes on, House groans loudly.

"Turn that fucking light off!" he barks.

Reluctantly doing as he's told, Wilson takes a tentative step forward, in the direction where he's located his friend's voice: the couch.

"You haven't shown up at work today," he says, half-worriedly, half-relieved, coming closer. "I'm glad to hear you apparently didn't die."

"Sorry to disappoint you, but I'm still alive," House deadpans sarcastically.

Just before he reaches the couch, Wilson trips over something on the floor and almost loses his balance.

"What the fuck?" he exclaims.

"Ah yeah, forgot to say, you probably wanna watch your step," House warns him with a slurring voice. "I've kind of started some spring cleaning lately but actually, I haven't gotten to the _cleaning_ part yet…"

Wilson looks down at the object on which he's stumbled and recognizes a book, thick and big, probably an encyclopedia. Now that his eyes have gotten accustomed to the semi darkness a little, he can make out his friend's silhouette, slumped in the couch with his legs stretched out and his feet crossed at the ankles, lying on the coffee table.

"What the hell have you been doing?" Wilson asks, coming closer and indeed spotting more items on the floor that give him the weird, unsettling impression that House has emptied half his book shelves and thrown everything randomly on the ground around him. "Why didn't you show up at work?"

"I had other things to do," House says flatly.

He's twiddling something between his fingers, something with which he makes an intermittent, metallic, clicking sound and Wilson is wondering what that is until a small flame briefly lights his friend's face and another clicking sound quickly follows making the flame disappear.

A zippo lighter.

Something is off and Wilson feels a cold shiver run down his spine as he's slowly lowering himself to sit on the couch's armchair, next to House. On the coffee table, he can make out the shapes of different objects, but he's not really sure what they are. A spoon maybe? And something else, that looks like a small wooden box.

"What's with the sudden urge for cleaning?" he asks cautiously, trying to look around him for more clues that would explain the mess, or why House wasn't at work.

"I'm celebrating," the diagnostician replies gloomily, his voice indicating anything but him being in an actual mood for celebration.

"Celebrating what?"

House shifts to the side a little and turns toward the oncologist.

"No fault divorce requires for couples to live at least 18 months apart," he starts explaining cryptically. "I'm lucky that the time I spent in jail can be included in that period-"

"What the hell are you talking about?" Wilson retorts, getting unnerved.

"Dominika. She came here two days ago and made a new attempt at convincing me to play the perfect husband. God, those Russian girls can be really stubborn!"

"You can't blame her for trying," Wilson offers lamely.

"I said no and she doubled her offer, which was tempting for, like, thirty seconds but, thing is I realized that _unlike you_, I'm really not the married type. So I filed for divorce. Should be official in a couple weeks. Hence the celebration…"

Once again, House plays with the zippo lighter in his hand and lights it briefly. This time, it lasts long enough for Wilson to identify something else that lies on the coffee table: a syringe. He gulps, and his palms suddenly get sweaty.

"House… House?" he whispers, his voice low, while staring intensely at the syringe on the table. "Did you…"

"And you know, that's funny," House interrupts his friend's question, his mind obviously single-tracked on his thoughts only. "Coz had Cuddy never been married I wouldn't have been familiar with no fault divorce law in New Jersey."

Wilson is too preoccupied by what he just saw to pay attention to his friend's ramblings so he slowly gets up and walks towards the nearest lamp by the bookcase, striding over the discarded items on the floor.

"I'm turning the light on," he says, walking the talk.

House cringes and grumbles in irritation but doesn't protest this time.

Now that the room is lit, Wilson can clearly see, without the shadow of a doubt, what's lying on the table and the sight of it instantly makes him feel queasy. There, in front of him, is gathered everything that usually makes up a heroin kit: a spoon, a syringe, a tourniquet, and a small bottle that contains a clear, colorless liquid.

"And since we're talking about Cuddy," House carries on, oblivious of his friend's reaction, "did I mention that she was also here the other day when Dominika showed up?"

"What's that?" Wilson demands angrily, visibly not registering what House just said, his attention solely focused on the items on the table.

"Why do you have to be so annoying?" His remark almost doesn't sound like a question. "That is exactly what it looks like," he replies dismissively. "You're missing the point Wilson. I'm telling you Cuddy was here, too. _We had sex_."

That last bit of information seems to suddenly grab Wilson's attention.

"House," he warns worriedly, sighing heavily and studying the syringe which, luckily enough seems to be unused. So far.

"She was here, in my apartment," House repeats. "She came… first, quite literally, and then, well you know what I mean."

"You don't know what you're talking about."

"Goddammit, I'm telling you that Cuddy was here! We had sex. Twice."

Wilson is standing in front of the couch and looks down at him, shaking his head, visibly dismayed.

"And then she left."

"Are you hallucinating again?"

"Don't you hear what I'm saying? She came back and we had sex and then she left me! _Again._ She left."

"House, it's ok." Wilson says reassuringly, leaning toward the coffee table to take the bottle of clear liquid in his hand. A quick glance at its content indicates him it's still apparently full. But that doesn't explain the mess or why House is seated here, in an obvious daze, mumbling incoherent things. Swiftly, he places the bottle in his pocket and scans the room around him.

"I haven't taken the drug," House says, in a low voice as if speaking to himself. Pushing himself off the couch's backrest, he sits up straight and leans down to place the zippo lighter on the coffee table, next to the spoon.

"_Yet_," Wilson says reproachfully.

House shrugs but makes no comment. Instead, he grabs something next to his lap and holds it up in the air. A bottle of scotch.

"But I may have taken a bit of this. More than a bit, actually."

He uncaps the bottle and takes another swig of the amber alcohol, wincing at the burning sensation. Then he hands it to Wilson.

"Wanna celebrate with me?" He asks with a crooked grin.

"I have a hard time finding anything worth celebrating, here," Wilson tells him harshly.

"You're right. People shouldn't celebrate divorce. Divorce is supposed to be sad," he slurs. "How about marriage, then?"

"You're not making any sense," the oncologist says, accusingly. "Which is it: are you and Dominika getting a divorce or are you staying married?"

"Oh, no, no, no" House replies, shaking his head theatrically, "Dominika and I are definitely getting divorced. I'm not talking about me, here. I'm talking about Cuddy…"

"House, you need to stop that nonsense with Cuddy and you two having sex or whatever. You're not thinking straight. I can understand how this is difficult for you to-"

"Oh you can?" House snaps coolly. "Tell me Wilson, what is it exactly that you _can_ understand? Really, I need to know how far your empathy goes. The woman I love, and I mean, not just the one I want to fuck, or be with, no, the woman _I love_ shows up here, she tells me she doesn't want to see me, but then we have sex, and then she leaves and I'm alone. ALONE, Wilson. So tell me, what do you understand? Coz yeah, you're right: this doesn't make sense and I, for one, don't have a fucking clue _**why**_. Can you explain that to me? Do _you_ know why she did this?"

Wilson sighs heavily and looks at his friend with concern but without saying a word. He's unable to say anything rational because nothing seems rational to him in that instant. How is he supposed to tell his drunk, deluded friend that what he thinks happened obviously only took place in his mind? He and Cuddy having sex? This is absolutely crazy. Still something really did happen, otherwise House wouldn't be here, numbed and with a heroin kit on his coffee table on top of that. _That_ is what worries Wilson the most. He's been clean for a little over two months now. Why would he suddenly fall off the wagon? Certainly not because he and Dominika are going separate ways. For what he can gather, that's something that doesn't seem to affect House much. Silence hangs heavily in the air between them for at least an entire minute.

"Life is shit Wilson," House finally says with a sad voice, breaking the silence. "I'm clean. I go find her. I'm doing everything right, you know… I get my shit together. I'm getting divorced. But then… Turns out _she_ is getting married! Isn't it ironic? There's got to be some kind of pattern here, what with the other guy always getting her first…"

Wilson frowns dubiously and panic slowly starts pervading him. It feels like the shock, or whatever it is that hit his friend, hit him harder than he first thought if House is now referring to a time that is long done and gone.

"House, Cuddy is not marrying Lucas," he says cagily.

House forces a laugh that comes out more like a strangled moan and he raises the bottle to his mouth, again taking another swig before answering with sarcasm:

"Wilson, I'm not dumb. _Of course_, I know she's not marrying Lucas. She dumped him! For me… And God, how fucking well that went… No, she's marrying another guy. She told me. Yep, right after we had sex. They're engaged. She had sex _with me_, but she's marrying _Mark_." He spat the name disdainfully, as if it was some kind of gross word. "Cuddy's a slut, Wilson. We should celebrate that too, what d'ya say?"

He tries to raise the bottle but Wilson snatches it out of his hand before he can bring it to his mouth. Something suddenly doesn't sound so completely crazy and as improbable as it has until now.

"What did you say the guy's name is?"

House closes his eyes and his head bobs from side to side a few times.

"Mark," he answers, his eyes still closed.

Wilson remembers having heard Cuddy mention a man named Mark a while ago during their ritual phone calls. It was not long after she'd moved to Philadelphia and she was slowly trying to live a normal life again, trying to get past the traumatic events of a still recent past. He remembers about her saying that she'd met a nice guy, Mark, and that she was considering dating him… and then, realization suddenly dawns on him.

"Cuddy came here," he says, still a little in disbelief.

House opens his eyes and tilts his head up to look at his friend, nodding solemnly.

"Cuddy came here," he repeats, stone faced.

"And you…"

"And we had sex, yeah. Twice," House confirms, raising two fingers in the air, a bitter smile forming on the corners of his lips.

"Jesus Christ! What is wrong with you guys?" Wilson exclaims angrily.

House pouts like a child that's been caught red-handed doing something stupid.

"_She_ came here!" He defends himself nonetheless. "I didn't ask anything."

"You had sex!"

"And then she left…"

"That is so beyond the point. The real question is: why did you have sex in the first place?"

House's eyes widen and he stares at Wilson with a 'duh' face.

"You obviously never had sex with Cuddy if you need to ask that!"

Wilson rolls his eyes skyward in exasperation.

"What? You never had sex with Cuddy, right?" House inquires, half-teasingly, half-seriously.

"House! Can you be fucking serious for once in your life? This is every kind of wrong and…"

"Oh come on, _I know_ you tried to hit that, too! Don't deny it."

"I'm not talking about me. I'm talking about you, and Cuddy… and _Mark_," Wilson reminds him spitefully, intentionally poking a sharp stick right where he knows it will hurt.

Sadness instantly clouds House's face over and he lowers his gaze, trying to avoid the oncologist's judgmental stare.

"She's getting married," Wilson says with a softer voice.

"She's getting married," House repeats, his voice barely above a whisper.

Wilson heaves a deep, helpless sigh and slouches on the couch next to House, looking dramatically defeated. Not knowing what to say, he brings the bottle of scotch to his lips and gulps a large sip out of it. House turns to the side to look at him and puts out his hand, indicating he wants his share of alcohol, too.

"No," Wilson says, moving the bottle out of his reach. "You've drunk enough already."

"But we're celebrating," House replies sheepishly.

Wilson jerks his head to the side and glowers at the diagnostician. House gets the hint and bites his lower lip, looking away abashedly. Silence settles in the room for a while.

"What's with all the mess?" Wilson finally asks, pointing at all the objects scattered on the floor.

"I was looking for something."

"Oh you were looking for something? Something like what?"

"Something I'd lost. Something I…. needed to find."

"And what would that be?"

"Not what you're thinking about," House says, making a face and sounding annoyed.

"You don't know what I'm thinking about," Wilson tries to defend himself.

"Oh please! I know you. And I know what you mean. But you're wrong because I wasn't looking for the heroin. You happy now?"

Wilson frowns dubiously and takes a deep breath, looking down at his lap, as if he was still trying to comprehend what happened. He raises the bottle of scotch to his mouth and swallows several gulps then tilts his head back against the couch's backrest, staring at the ceiling in silence.

"Where did you get it?" he asks after a while, a bit of sadness registering in his voice.

"It was stashed behind the bookcase. I stumbled on it completely by chance."

"House, I'm not stupid!"

"Wilson, I'm not stupid!" House says, mimicking his friend's upset tone. "If I wanted to shoot up heroin, I'd have injected myself with a dose already. I _didn't_ take the drug. As a matter of fact, I'd completely forgotten about it-"

"Yeah, sure! You're a recovering addict and I'm supposed to believe you when you say that this heroin kit was here, in your apartment, _by chance_; especially when it was put right in the middle of your coffee table, ready to be used, just when I came in?"

"I was going to throw it away."

Wilson puffs and shakes his head distrustfully.

"I'm _clean_," House says stubbornly. "I have no intention of taking heroin or any drug-"

Wilson sighs resignedly and sits up straight. Leaning forward, he lays the bottle of scotch on the table and starts putting the different items back inside the wooden box.

"So you wouldn't mind if I took these with me, eh?" he says challengingly, glancing at House above his shoulder.

House sits up, too, and snatches the zippo lighter before Wilson can get it.

"Not the box," he simply replies, looking away. "My father got it in Vietnam."

Without a word, Wilson empties the box and gathers the items inside his hand before putting them in his jacket's pocket.

"Did you find what you were looking for?" he asks, plunking himself in a more laid-back position.

House is seated on the edge of the couch, his elbows resting on his knees and his head bowed down. He's playing with the zippo lighter again. And in his right hand, he's holding something that Wilson can't see but which looks like a piece of paper.

"Yeah," he says with a raspy voice.

Every now and then, he's bringing the flame of the lighter underneath the piece of paper, without ever putting it close enough to set it on fire.

"What's that?" Wilson asks, curious.

When House doesn't answer, he pushes himself up and sits on the edge of the couch next to House to find out on his own. House doesn't even try to conceal the paper out of Wilson's sight. He just holds it in his hand and he hears his friend sigh heavily as he finally sees what it is.

"A picture of Cuddy?"

House imperceptibly nods and once again brings the flame close to the edge of the photograph, but not close enough to burn it.

"When did Cuddy ever wear a Sleeping Beauty costume?" Wilson asks, matter-of-factly.

"A long time ago," House answers, with a sad, melancholic edge to his voice. "I should burn it, right?"

He shoots his head to the side to meet his friend's gaze and looks at him quizzically.

"You're asking my opinion? House, my opinion is: I don't have an opinion!"

"Thanks. You're being very helpful. As usual," House replies sarcastically.

"Fine. Give it to me. I can burn it for you if that's what you want," Wilson says, putting out his hand in House's direction.

Immediately, House closes his fingers tightly around the picture and moves his hand away.

"Nuh-uh. I… I'm not… ready to do that just yet." He glances at Wilson and sends him a shy, embarrassed look, as if he were feeling ashamed of himself for showing such weakness and sentimentality about a damn, stupid photograph.

Wilson nods empathically and House returns his focus to the snapshot for a short while, the pad of his thumb softly brushing the outlines of Cuddy's silhouette on the picture almost unconsciously.

"She doesn't love me, does she?" he says, after a few seconds, his voice low and unsure.

Wilson sighs but doesn't say anything. What is there to say, anyway? Everything is so fucked up and wrong, and… sad mostly. It breaks his heart to see his friend in such emotional misery, but what can he do when, in truth, he has a hard time processing the whole thing himself, already? So instead, he bends over and takes the remote control.

"Wanna watch TV?" he asks, with fake enthusiasm.

"No."

"Want me…" he slowly starts getting up, "to help you clean this mess?" He offers, though with reluctance.

House gets up too, clutching his hand around his bad thigh and staggering a little.

"No. I think I'm gonna puke," he says, with a smirk. "So, unless you want to hold my hair out of my face and stroke my back affectionately, I don't really need you here."

"You sure?"

"That I don't want you to stroke my back? Yeah, I'm sure," House deadpans mockingly. "I'll be fine," he adds when Wilson still doesn't move.

"Ok. If you say so."

"Puke. Kinda imminent," House warns, his face theatrically contorting in a grimace.

"Alright, alright, I'm going! Just… You sure you're ok?"

Wilson's hand instinctively pats his jacket's pocket where he's put the various items from the heroin kit. House doesn't fail to notice and rolls his eyes.

"I _was_ gonna throw it away," he says.

"Yeah."

"Oh for God's sake, Wilson, stop being such a drama queen! These past two days don't exactly rank amongst the best I had in my life, but I had worse… I _will_ have worse," he says, looking his friend straight in the eyes defiantly. "I'm _**fine**_."

"What are you gonna do now?"

"Now? _Like I said_, as soon as you leave me the fuck alone, I'm probably gonna puke my guts out then I'll go to bed."

"That's not what I mean."

"I _know _what you mean. But, I don't have the answer to _that_... yet. I'll just take it one little puking step at a time if you don't mind. Geez, I'm getting divorced, Wilson! You of all people should know I need some time on my own to get over it!" House exclaims, throwing his hands up in the air with extravaganza.

Recognizing his friend's deflecting strategy, usually indicating that the walls are up and the conversation is definitely over, Wilson has no other choice but to give up. He sighs resignedly and walks towards the door. Just before exiting House's apartment, he turns around and looks at him with a sorry smile, conveying the best he can everything that has now become useless to add.

"I'll see you tomorrow at work?"

"Yeah. Good night, Wilson."

"Good night, House."

# # # # # # #

He shouldn't do it - he knows that - because that's none of his business and he hates being caught in the middle of something so screwed up there's more than a good chance he'll be the one ending feeling guilty – or worse – but, since the minute he got home, Wilson has been feeling the compelling urge to call Cuddy. He's dialed her number a few times but so far, he's always hung up before the call could get through. Except, he just can't let go. Not after he's been forced to flush the content of a bottle filled with morphine into the toilet. Not when he knows _where_ that bottle came from and _not_, when he's seen how much what happened a few days ago has left his friend in a state of complete misery.

No, he just can't.

So for the fourth time this evening, he dials Cuddy's number but this time, he waits until she picks up.

"Wilson? You've heard," she instantly says, not bothering with the usual greetings.

It undeniably catches the oncologist off guard, to say the least.

"Wh… What?"

"Garrison," she explains. "Heart attack. This afternoon, right in the middle of a Board meeting. They did everything they could…"

"Garrison's dead?" Wilson exclaims, a bit shocked.

There's a bad joke about the job as Dean of Medicine at Princeton General that says the spot will never be available, unless Garrison dies of a heart attack behind his desk… And now… Who'd have thought that it would actually happen?

But, that's obviously not what Wilson is calling for. As much as it saddens him to hear the news, there's something else he needs to discuss with Cuddy. So, even though it may be a bit harsh, he loses no time dismissing the subject.

"Wow," he says, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "And here I thought Deans of medicine didn't have a heart."

Cuddy doesn't fail to register the change of tone in her friend's voice and it startles her a little.

"What? What do you mean?"

"What do you think I mean, Cuddy? Or shall I get used to your future, new _married_ name, already?"

A heavy, almost deafening silence falls at the other end of the line and Wilson assumes that Cuddy is stomaching the shock of his not so very subtle and quite straightforward allusion. Then he hears her take a deep breath.

"What are you talking about?" She asks with a wobbling voice and it's clear that she knows, at least partly, what Wilson is referring to, which considering there's only one way he can have heard about it means that she's undoubtedly in trouble.

"Spare me the fake, surprised tone," Wilson snaps angrily. "You, Cuddy? Really? You had to do this? _Now_, on top of it! Jesus Christ, I'm gonna tell you the same thing I told House but, what the hell is wrong with you? Seriously?"

"I… I don't wanna talk about this," she says sheepishly.

"I'm sorry but you don't really have a choice! You're getting married and… and you find nothing better to do than to sleep with House?"

"This is none of your business."

"Oh, you think? I'm not talking about you getting married, even though, I'd have thought you'd have at least told me… I'm… I don't understand you, Cuddy. Why did you do this?"

"Wilson, I'm sorry too but again, this is none of your business." She's desperately trying to sound assertive but there's no denying the fact that ashamed, and utterly confused is what she's feeling the most in that moment.

"Yes, it is! You know where I was this evening?"

Of course she knows. She knows he was at House's place and just picturing the scene makes her feel sick.

"I… Please, Wilson, it's complicated," is her only, very lame answer.

Since the moment when she's sent her letter to House, she's been reliving the night she's spent with him and, 'in complete disarray' doesn't even begin to cover how she's been feeling ever since.

"_Complicated_? That's all you have to say? How about, fucked-up? Stupid? _Wrong_? For Christ's sake, Cuddy, you think having sex with House is the clever thing to do? You really think he's in any way capable of handling you rejecting him a second time?"

Cuddy remains stubbornly silent but Wilson doesn't care. He has to let it out once and for all because the anger that's been boiling inside of him since he's left House's apartment won't leave him and he just have to let off steam and release his pent-ups feelings on someone. And who, better than Cuddy, deserves to be given a piece of his mind in that instant?

"I know he came to see you," he carries on, on a roll. "And frankly, had I known, I would have tried to talk him out of it because this was supposed to be _pointless,_ wasn't it? I mean, I've been here, for you over the last two years. We talked about what happened on countless occasions. I know what you've been through, but I also know what you _want_. What you _told_ me you wanted… And that never included screwing with House, ever again."

"I… I know what I said," she falters out. "But I… maybe, I…"

"WHAT? You're having second thoughts, _now_?"

"I… I don't know, I…"

"You're getting _married_!"

She gulps audibly and Wilson's mouth falls agape, in shock.

"You're… Don't tell me you're not getting married," he says, sounding completely aghast.

"Wilson, please, listen… I… I'm coming to Princeton for Garrison's funeral in a couple of days. It's scheduled Friday and I… Please. Don't tell him anything."

"You're not getting married?" Wilson repeats, dismayed. "Why the hell did you tell him _that_? You think you can play with his feelings like that? You think it's some kind of game?"

He's fuming with anger now and Cuddy feels cornered, like a wild animal caught inside a hunter's net.

"I DON'T KNOW!" She shouts, and a sob breaks her voice on the last syllable. "I know I screwed up. I… It wasn't supposed to happen. I thought…"

"Jesus fucking Christ! I don't believe it."

"I know what I did was wrong and, I owe House an explanation. I… I don't know what to do but Wilson, you need to understand things haven't been easy for me, too-"

No. Wilson doesn't _need_ to understand that. He's sick and tired of that unhealthy, on and off relationship his two friends have been in for way too long now. But most of all, he's sick and tired of being caught in the middle of it and always having to do damage control so that none of them would crumble into pieces. She broke up with him. _She_ left him. And House, well House may be an asshole of the grandest kind but he doesn't deserve to suffer like he is suffering now.

"Cuddy, you can't see House," Wilson interrupts her, with a determined voice.

"What do you mean I can't?"

He doesn't think twice about what he's about to say. Maybe he's wrong and maybe it's not up to him to decide but he knows what he saw at House's place tonight. He knows what kind of damages he's capable of doing to himself. And he knows Cuddy is unable to handle that. Worse, she's unwilling to.

"I was at his place this evening," he says. "And you know what he was doing when I arrived?"

He takes her silence as a cue to carry on.

"He was… well not exactly _doing_ because I got there on time, but Cuddy… there was a heroin kit on the table, right in front of him and I swear to God, I don't know-"

"Oh God! You mean… he's using again?"

"I didn't say that. But it was there. And honestly, do you really think that was a coincidence? Right after you showed up, had sex with him and then broke his heart again, leaving him with the impression that you'd just used him like he was some kind of disposable fuck?"

He hears her gasp in shock at the other end of the line and then she starts crying, almost silently, barely sniffing, but he can hear it all the same.

"Cuddy, House is fucked up and what he did to you was wrong. You _know_ I am not and will never condone it but, you need to stop hurting him like this is revenge or something. He's a good man. He doesn't deserve that."

"He's using again?" she repeats incredulous.

"What do you think? You broke up with him once. Do you not remember how it went after that? I'd have thought that you, _of all people_, would know how much House can completely lose it when it comes to you…"

"I didn't, I…"

"Of course, that's not what you wanted and you and House have a complicated history and things are not simple," Wilson enumerates, a bit judgmentally, "but, unless you're absolutely sure what you want…"

"I don't know, Wilson. I mean, I can't just…"

"Yeah, you can't. That's your problem, Cuddy. You can't _just_ decide." Wilson sighs bitterly and closes his eyes, as he takes a deep breath.

"I'm sorry," she says with a very low voice.

"I'm sure you are," he half-snaps because what he really means to say is: you really should be.

"Please, just make sure-"

"I will," he simply answers before she's even finished her sentence because he's guessed what she wanted to ask him.

"I'm sorry," she says again, the quiet sobs ever so slightly altering her voice.

After he hung up, Wilson stares at his phone for a long while, replaying the conversation in his head once again. Maybe it wasn't up to him to decide. Maybe he is wrong, but he did what he thought was right. And that's for the best, he thinks. It has to be.

* * *

_**A/N**_

_Thank you so much to all of you who have read and reviewed the last chapter of this story: OldSFfan, oc7ober, Faby, Huddy4Ever, LapizSilkwood, IHeartHouseCuddy, freeasabird14, JLCH, linda12344, Abby, Housebound, Jaybe61, HuddyGirl, bere, Alex, lenasti16, paulac45, vicpei1, bladesmum, precioussoulandsweetcheeksiin1, Boo's House! You are all wonderful people and I can't thank you enough for taking the time to let me know your thoughts! You rock._

_Also, a big thanks to all of you who have stopped by since I first posted this story and have added it in their list of favorites, or put it on alert. Thank you for adding me, as an author, in your list of favorites, too. That's a great honor and I'm very grateful to know that you appreciate the stories I write._

_Sometimes, I wonder if I'm moving this one too fast; other times, I'm afraid that maybe you'll think it's going too slow… I'm just trying to fix some of the things that have been ruined, but I'm aware I certainly won't solve everything. In the end, I just hope you won't be disappointed…_

_I'll post next chapter asap. Teeny tiny spoiler: House will get Cuddy's letter… ;P_


	10. Chapter 10

_Hi everyone, _

_Here's the new chapter. I hope you'll like it._

* * *

**** I Will Always Choose You ****

**- Chapter 10 -**

Routine. Dull routine and unexciting events are all that fill House's following two days at PPTH.

As promised to Wilson, he's gone back to the hospital and has tried to act like he cares about being Head of the Diagnostics Department but, in truth, he doesn't. His team has been handling the case of… someone with… something but it's just another boring one that he's solved practically the minute he's read the file. He could have entertained himself with the back and forth squabbles of his team while they were trying to conduct the differential but even that has felt uninteresting to him. Seeing little playmobil doctor snapping at any offhand suggestions Taub makes; or the one with the waving, L'Oreal shampoo hair scolding her that it's not worth it and Chase, who House thinks is actually the only efficient rat aboard that ship, refocusing everyone on the patient with one witty, spot-on remark that finally makes the case moved forward has done nothing to him. All of that could have been amusing, pleasant, or maybe even distracting. But there're no surprises, no real risk, and no fun. Eventually it's only patterns, predictable and passionless, and the worse thing is that it now feels like what House's life is condemned to look like for the eternity to come.

Wilson has avoided him most of the time, which is both strange – considering that he obviously suspected House was about to take drugs the last time he checked on him – and somehow typically coward of him – for the very same reason.

It's one of those cornerstone moments in life when you have to accept that you can't build a future upon a long gone past solely and that some things need to be let go of. Whether it's the green card, so-called wife you never cared about or the only woman you can think of but can't have, reality checks don't really care what the price to pay is, or how excruciating it will be. Reality checks are just what they're very obviously meant to be: a way to hammer reality, no matter how painful, into the resisting, rebel brains of people who refuse to face it.

Except House has never been good at this: neither with cornerstones nor with allowing his rebel brain to bend docilely to any kind of stupid realities he, indeed, refuses to face. So with Cuddy's photograph posing as Sleeping Beauty tucked in his jeans' pocket, he's spent almost two days just sat there, talking in one-word answers to his team most of the time and absent-mindedly staring out the window, searching outside for some proof that his mind is not as locked-in and desperately cornered as it seems to be. But no matter how hard he's tried, no matter how rational and reasonable it should sound, he's been unable to get his head around the fact that life is an endless succession of ironically ill-timed moments and that, eventually, it is just fucking unfair. Not that he's omniscient in all things emotion-related – and actually, even he can admit he's the opposite of that – but, at least, there were signs. _Unmistakable_ signs. Hell, he's built a whole life of knowledge and power out of being able to read those signs, maybe just clinical ones, but still that doesn't make him completely clueless when it comes to understanding feelings or what his heart is telling him. _She_ came to him. And as she was snuggled up in his arms, while they were making love, he'd _felt_ it. As surely as he knew then, without a doubt, that this was the place where he wanted to be the most, he also knew she had showed up for a reason. And that reason was not to say goodbye. It was not to tell him she was getting married either and it was not to say it was over. No, it can't be.

Friday afternoon, most people, at least important ones, are heading to Garrison's funeral, the Dean at Princeton General. Just the word 'Dean' itself is ironic enough for House to want to hang around anywhere else but there. He's always hated funerals and he doesn't have to check to know that he is probably not welcome to that hypocritical display of fake concern anyway, which is the perfect excuse to leave PPTH and head back home while his team will monitor the patient's recovery now that he's been diagnosed and the appropriate treatment is given to him.

He knows Foreman is at the funeral – even if there's more than a good chance that he doesn't give a damn about Garrison's fate – but he knows the man would never miss an opportunity to shake some important hands. As for House, dying of heart attack during a board meeting is as boring as it sounds so with the knowledge that no one will even notice his absence he's seized the opportunity to leave his office early and go back to his apartment.

As he steps inside his building's hallway, he mechanically stops at the mailbox to check if he's got mail. He doesn't expect anything other than some flyers advertising whatever he knows he doesn't need, but he still gives it a look all the same, if anything just for the sake of emptying the box. There're a gas bill and, indeed, some prospectus for a 24/7 plumbing service, and one about that new Chinese restaurant that's just opened round the corner a few weeks before. And then there's a letter. _Her_ letter. He recognizes the handwriting instantly and his hand starts shaking when he does. For a while, he stares at the envelope where she's written his address, still standing in the hallway as he's rooted to the spot, totally dumbfounded. Past the first effect of surprise, he shakes himself back to reality and limps unsteadily to his doorsill, sliding the key inside the lock and pushing open the door in haste before entering his place. Except for her letter, he drops everything he's holding onto the ground without a care for the noise his cane and his bike's helmet make when they hit the wooden floor then he takes his leather jacket off, wiggling frantically to get the sleeves past his arms and passing the letter from one hand to another as he does.

Then he practically hops to his couch and sits down heavily, immediately tearing the envelope open and sliding the thickness of several folded sheets of paper out. He doesn't want to give himself enough time to speculate about what it could be about because speculating could lead to diametrically opposite ends, one maybe positive considering she's posted this letter after coming to his place the other night, but the other surely devastating considering what she's told him just before leaving. And truth is he's not sure he can handle either one of these possible outcomes. So instead he unfolds the letter and starts to read.

For an entire hour, this is the only thing that he does: reading her letter, and reading it again. After an hour, it's like he knows each word, each sentence and each paragraph by heart already. And he, the great diagnostician who can solve the trickiest of mysteries, finds himself lost and unable to put the pieces of the puzzle together. The words bounce inside his head like a ball in a pinball machine and that storm it creates feels like an immense wave ready to swallow him.

Of course, the loudest of all the baffling, crazy things that's been playing in a loop in his mind ever since he's finished reading the letter can be summed up in a three-word sentence: _I'm not engaged. _NOT engaged, she wrote. But even that isn't what causes his breath to get caught inside his lungs the most, or his palms to get sweaty, and his hands to tremble while he tries to think beyond what those simple three words mean. No, it's the combination of everything else, a mix of anger, fear, confusion and doubt that echoes endlessly inside his ears, as if he could really hear her say those words to him for real, hidden behind the ugliest of all lies, over and over again: _I lied to you. I'm not engaged…_

And suddenly, there in his mind, it becomes crystal clear as he finally puts the pieces of the puzzle together. It doesn't matter if he's right or wrong to see it that way. The thing is he can't see it any different. It's there, in front of his eyes, and maybe it's delusional, maybe it's filled with too much irrational hope but he can't help viewing the whole picture like he does. Like _she_ said it… because those are her words, only hers, and after he's re-read them dozens of times, that's the letter he now sees…

_Since the moment when I heard you'd gotten out of prison, I knew… I spent two years re-building my life, pieces after pieces. I spent this entire time making sure I'd be strong, perfectly emotionless and indifferent… And I thought I was ready… And I hate myself for being wrong and weak, and so fucking clueless about it all... I decided that resigning was my best option because I couldn't stand just being in that hospital anymore, where every single corner, and hallway, and exam room reminded me of _**you**_… Would it appease you to know that I cried until my eyes were dry?... When we broke up, when you made me watch you marry that slut, when I found you drenched in your own blood in your bathtub that night… when you told me you felt hurt and then, you decided that I had to feel it, only ten times worse, too… But you? Did you ever cry?... Where there is passion, there's tumult. And I have loved you, House. I've loved you just the way you were. Could you not see that? Could you not trust me to feel that?... I know I did hurt you, but that was not easy for me, either... I understood you were never _**with me**_, for real... During all those months when we were together, you made me think that I mattered to you, that I was everything to you but… you chose pain over me, instead. How am I supposed to love that kind of man? Why did you have to do this to me, now, when I've tried so fucking hard to forget you...? Fuck, I'm supposed to be angry! I need anger to protect me from what I don't have the energy to deal with anymore… Knowing Dominika is your wife makes me sick to my stomach. I called Wilson a few weeks ago… I just needed to ask him things, about you… I didn't ask because I care… I just needed to prove to myself that the feelings were gone... I just can't make that same mistake over and over again…_ _I've struggled so hard to convince myself that what we had didn't mean a thing… Hating you felt more comfortable. At least, it was the right thing to do. Yes, we had sex. I let you kiss me. And it felt good... I should be able to stand before you and feel nothing. But I'll never have nothing… You make nothing impossible… Don't make promises you can't keep. I can't let you mess with my life again... After you and I broke up, Rachel cried a lot. She really liked you, House. My sister is right... Whenever I dare mention your name, everyone thinks I'm crazy... I know what being near you will do to me… It's so fucking hard for me to do what everyone else wants me to do… I have a kid. I have a job in another city… I can't let that happen… Because this is insane… It doesn't matter how good it feels to make love to you… Sex isn't everything… If it was, maybe we'd still be together... Maybe I'm not angry anymore… Julia liked Mark a lot, obviously. My mother approved of him, too. Mark is exactly what everyone wishes __for me but Mark is not you. I tried to convince myself it would take time before I would feel good in another man's arms. But then, I never felt it… I lied to you. I'm not engaged… All those little things, every day that kept reminding me that he wasn't you… I just couldn't do it. I'm stuck, House. I can't get you out of my head. You're the whole book… How do you forget the most incredible man you've ever known? I just don't want to get hurt anymore. Not by you. I just needed to tell you I'm not mad anymore. I lied to you because I need you to hate me so you would let me go. _

I don't want to get hurt anymore. This is insane… I need you to hate me. _Hate_ me. Let me go…

He rubs his forehead forcefully, as if he hoped it could prevent the words, _her_ words, from echoing in his head, but it doesn't work. How can she ask him that? How can he do it anyway? Hate her? No. Never. He will never hate her and he knows… deep down he knows that if she's asking that of him it's because she will never hate him either. And there is no way he's going to let go, now. Not when he's absolutely sure of what can be read between the lines she wrote. He doesn't care about the lies. What he hears between the lines is worse than the fact that she's pretended to be engaged to make him leave her. What he hears is everything that she doesn't say. Everything she hides to him and everything she denies to herself. And at the same time that it gives him some semblance of hope, it positively enrages him, too, to know that their story, somehow, always has to be about giving up.

But he won't allow it this time. He's suddenly filled with the same kind of energy he would feel when he's found a diagnosis that he knows can save his patient and the patient is not willing to fight anymore. Yes it feels oddly similar to that exact same unbelievable irony that he's always refused to yield to and will never accept because as long as there's a viable solution, you don't give up. Ever.

Words don't matter. Actions matter. In that he believes. No words she'll ever say or write will stop him from feeling the way he feels now: angry, frustrated, afraid but… stronger than he's ever felt in the past two years. And what gives him the strength that boils within him as he gets up and picks up his cane, leather jacket and helmet on the floor is something he thought he'd definitely lost and that only she is able to give him: he's feeling alive again…

# # # # # # #

He doesn't knock. He bangs, incessantly. And he raps the door with his cane's handle, too, for good measure, until Wilson finally opens, carrying Sarah the cat in his arms. Upon seeing House, only confirmation of whom he expected to come face to face with, he rolls his eyes in exasperation and House, unimpressed, practically shoves the oncologist to the side to clear himself a way through the door. It scares the cat away and Wilson hisses a curse word through clenched teeth as it jumps off his arms and runs to hide in one of the bedrooms. Closing the door behind him, he slowly turns around to face House.

"I need Cuddy's address," House says determinedly before his friend gets a chance to talk first.

Wilson tilts his head upward and closes his eyes for a split second, trying hard to suppress the "fuck you" that's on the tip of his tongue right there and then. Instead, he heaves a deep sigh and stares wearily at House.

"I just came back from a funeral, House," he scolds. "I'm not in the mood for-"

"Neither am I. I just need her address. Then I'll leave."

Intrigued, as if he finally registered the meaning of House's question, Wilson narrows his eyes at him quizzically.

"Why do you need her address, now?"

"Listen," House says, his voice betraying his boiling anger, "I can save us the painful part of that conversation where I tell you how much of a lying bastard you are or I can get there and explain but then I'm not sure you really want to hear-"

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"LIES!" House practically shouts. "Like the one you told me when you said Cuddy didn't ask about me the other day at the bar when you had her on the phone."

Wilson's eyes widen in surprise and then he briefly looks down at his feet in embarrassment.

"Fine!" he confesses, aggravated. "I lied. Cuddy asked me about you. Meaningless questions about your team and where you lived, so I didn't think it was worth mentioning. Why does it matter anyway? It meant nothing! She doesn't care about you, House. As painful as it is, you need to move on. She's getting married-"

"Another lie!" House exclaims.

Wilson's mouth falls agape and he stares at his friend in bafflement.

"Yeah," House says triumphantly, "She's _not_ getting married."

"How… how do _you_ know that?" Wilson falters out, sounding strangely more taken aback to hear that House knows than by the fact itself.

House's eyebrows fly up and he stares at the oncologist for a while, until the weight of his scrutinizing gaze causes Wilson to gulp.

"You _knew_ it?" He puffs, realization hitting him when he sees the unmistakable shame in his friend's eyes.

Wilson remains stubbornly silent but he has the word "guilt" written all over his face.

"When?" House demands compellingly. "WHEN did you learn?" he repeats, when Wilson still refuses to answer.

"I… just… after I went to your place the other night. I swear, I had no idea-"

"Did you talk to her after you went to my place?"

"House…"

"Did you?!"

"Yes. I called her."

House takes a sharp breath and brings his hand to his forehead, forcefully rubbing it as he starts pacing in Wilson's loft, visibly fuming with anger.

"Did you… did you tell her about the heroin kit?" He asks, stopping abruptly to face Wilson and glaring menacingly at him.

Again, Wilson looks down but doesn't answer.

"Fuck!" House blurts out, furious.

"So what?" Wilson exclaims, recovering some poise. "Was there not a heroin kit in your apartment the other day when I got there?"

"I told you I was going to throw it away!" House shouts, before covering his mouth with his hand and staring at the oncologist in total dismay. "Jesus fucking Christ, Wilson, I can't…" He stops mid-sentence and sighs heavily. "Just give me her address."

"She's not…" Wilson starts hesitantly.

"Goddammit, you're not my babysitter!" House barks. "It's not your call to decide-"

"I was just trying to say that if you want to see her, her address is not what you need!"

"What do you mean?"

"She's here, in Princeton," Wilson says, tiredly. "I know you don't give a fuck about it but-"

"She was here for Garrison's funeral," House completes, inwardly scolding himself for not having thought of it earlier. "You saw her?"

"Yes."

"Did you talk to her?"

"Barely," Wilson confesses, not really in the mood to explain in details why Cuddy and he indeed felt the need to keep their distance, only politely greeting each other and briefly exchanging small talks after the service.

"Tell me you know where she's staying." House's voice gets softer, almost pleading.

Wilson averts his eyes, trying to decide whether or not he should share that piece of information with House.

"You're not going there to make a scene, are you?"

House sets his lips in stubborn silence and impatiently taps his fingers atop his cane. He's not going to budge until Wilson gives him the name of a place where he can find her. That much is obvious. Wilson throws his hands up in the air resignedly.

"FINE!" He exclaims, exasperated. "She's staying at the Double Tree but-"

House is already half-way out the door before he can finish his sentence and say that she'll probably refuse to see him, but is House ready to hear _that_ anyway?

"Hey, don't thank me!" He calls after the fleeing silhouette of his friend in the hallway.

House stops and turns around, a mischievous smile on his face.

"You're lucky enough I didn't punch you in the face for being the annoying meddler that you are," he declares, half-teasing, half-serious before limping away and disappearing from sight.

Wilson stands on his doorstep a little while longer, staring blankly ahead into the empty hallway. He doesn't have a clue what is about to unfold – it could be a disaster for all he knows - and as much as it scares him to contemplate House's motives, he realizes that his friend is right: this is not up to him to decide what's right and what's wrong. With those two, it's always been such a blurry concept, Wilson's not even sure he knows the answer to that question, anyway.

(…)

* * *

_**A/N**_

_To oc7ober, vicpei1, goran, JLCH, freeasabird14, IHeartHouseCuddy, housebound, lenasti16, OldSFfan, Huddy4ever, LapizSilkwood, Abby, LittleGreg, HuddyGirl, Alex, linda12344, Boo's House, bere, jaybe61, Paulac45, Faby, RochelleRene: a HUGE thank you for being awesome readers and leaving me a review on the last chapter. Your words mean a lot to me and I take every one of them as another breathe of inspiration to fuel my muse and continue to share stories with you. So, again, thank you. _

_And of course, thank you to everyone who's stopped by and has read this story, favorited it or put it on alert since the last installment._

_This chapter was first supposed to also include the following scene between House and Cuddy but this would have taken me much more time to get it ready and I wanted to post something sooner rather than later so I hope you won't hate me too much for cutting it in two parts… __I can now tell you, for sure, that this story will be a 13-chapter long story – despite having initially outlined it to be wrapped in 12 chapters since I had to cut this one in two; It also means that there're now three chapters to go before the end, one of which will be an epilogue, so hang in there: no matter how stormy the weather is, in the end, I promise you there'll be a silver lining… ;)_

_Have a nice day ~ maya_


	11. Chapter 11

_Hi everyone!_

_Here's the new chapter. It may be a bit cheesy and some of you might even find it a bit out of character. I don't know… I did the best I could to take the story where I wanted it to be so I hope you'll still like it as it is… :P_

* * *

**** I Will Always Choose You ****

**- Chapter 11 -**

He's standing right by the door of her hotel room.

It's been exceptionally easy to get the number and the floor from that girl at the reception counter. More than House expected it would be but then, the young receptionist was obviously not the smartest cookie in the jar. He only had to hold _his_ wallet for her to see and pretend with an appropriately faked, sad look on his face that he was at the funeral of a much respected doctor earlier that day where Mrs. Cuddy, one of their clients, had lost something valuable she would certainly need very soon, if anything _to pay_ before leaving, and that poor, naïve girl had instantly volunteered all the information he needed to go and give her the precious object back himself. Not that he was in any mood to complain about such blatant stupidity but, as he'd taken the elevator to the fifth floor, he'd thought that supposedly high-standard hotels weren't what they used to be anymore.

But now that he's there and there's only one door standing between the two of them, House suddenly feels a little short of breath, as a mix of sizzling excitement and apprehension is taking hold of him. What's he going to say to her? That is surely something he hasn't rehearsed, even though his mind has been boiling from anticipation throughout the entire ride that he took on his bike to get to the Double Tree hotel where she's staying. He's got no specific plan. All he knows is that he needs to let those bottled-up feelings that her letter triggered in him out, an exhausting combination of anger, relief, hope and despair, tied up in a knot in the pit of his stomach. He won't be able to find sleep, or even less any semblance of peace of mind if he doesn't give himself a chance to tell her what a gigantic fuckery he thinks this is. It's both indescribable and unconceivable but, deep within him he can feel that they still have one card to play. It's a poker game, and it's probably the boldest move he'll ever make in his life but now is the right time to get all in because if he doesn't do it and the game is over while he'd have just passively stood there watching it unfold, that's something he knows he'll regret for the rest of his miserable life. There is nothing else to do, when you've fallen at your lowest, than to give one strong kick to push yourself back up towards the surface and _she_ is the surface, where there is air to breathe, and sunlight instead of that cold, suffocating feeling of drowning he's been feeling for too long.

He's fumbling in his jacket's pocket where he's put the letter she sent him and takes it out, holding it in his hand tightly, like he would hold on to the last remaining proof that what he's here for means something. Then he knocks, in a very conventional way, uncharacteristic of him enough so that she'll open without suspecting he's the one standing behind her door. When she does open and they come face to face, they both gasp, though imperceptibly; he because seeing her in the flesh again, so close to him, simply takes his breath away, like it always does, and she because she very obviously didn't expect to find him here.

"House!" She exclaims, bringing her free hand to her chest while the other one is clutching the door's handle. "What are you-"

"Can I come in?" He asks, although the way he says it makes it sound like he's not really asking a question.

She squares her shoulders, still conspicuously blocking the way and lifts her chin up.

"I don't think you-"

"What? Don't tell me I'm interrupting something. It's not like there's a half-naked Mark in there whom I'd risk bumping into, or is there?" He puffs and half glares at her.

She takes a deep breath and hangs her head in shame, instantly understanding with his implied comment that he knows about her lie.

"So can I come in now?" He repeats, his voice dripping with sarcasm. Then he brandishes the letter, _her_ letter, right under her nose and takes a small step closer. "Or maybe you'd rather I ask you what the fuck is THIS, here, while I'm standing in the hallway where everybody can hear me?"

His voice has gotten significantly and threateningly louder and knowing he is absolutely capable of doing what he says because he's not one to care for the consequences, Cuddy caves and opens the door to her room. House walks past her and enters the impeccably refined space as she closes the door behind her.

As she stands with her back to him, he takes the opportunity to look at her and instantly feels overwhelmed by her beauty. She's wearing casual clothes and her hair is gathered in a messy bun of raven curls, some of which, untamed, fall in the nape of her neck. She turns around and joins him inside, in a small lounge area that further leads to another, bigger space where a king size bed adorns the place devoted to sleep.

"I give you five minutes," she says, with as much assertiveness as she can muster.

"I'm gonna need a little bit more than that."

"You're high," she spits disdainfully.

It feels like she's just punched him in the guts, even though he kind of expected her to say that, but he still finds it in him to stomach her barb with enough stoicism to appear unfazed.

"Wow. That's one fucking convenient line you've found here for whenever you wanna get rid of me, isn't it?" He replies, tit for tat.

"You're the drug addict, not me," she says angrily, yet with an unmistakable hint of regret in her voice.

"Except, you're wrong! I told you I was clean and I'm _clean_, Cuddy."

"Don't lie to me!" She accuses. "Wilson told me-"

"Ah yeah, Wilson! You're so willing to believe his version over mine. That's how much faith you have in me," he barks resentfully.

"_Heroin_, House! That's not something you just make up. I should have known-"

"What? That I'd fall off the wagon? That I'd end up shooting up heroin because you broke my heart again and you think I'm incapable of dealing with that without using again? So that was a test?"

She stares at him, mouth agape.

"Was it?"

"There is no test. What you choose to inject inside your body is your decision, not mine. I'm not responsible-"

"I didn't take the goddamn heroin!" He shouts. "Did Wilson also say that to you or did he conveniently forget to mention it?"

His confession gives her pause, almost in spite of herself, and confusion starts spreading across her features. She's obviously struggling to decide whether or not he's lying to her. Her gaze is scrutinizing as she's searching in his eyes for proof that he's telling the truth. House heaves a deep, exasperated sigh and, out of the blue, rolls the sleeve of his shirt up. In one stride, he comes only inches away from her and stretches his arm in front of her, exposing the bend of his arm to her sight.

"You wanna check for needle stick marks?"

She freezes and tries to sustain his challenging gaze, refusing to look down, in spite of her imperious need to do so.

"Go ahead!" He urges. "You're dying to anyway."

She puffs and abashedly shots a quick glance at the bend of his arm. The veins there are prominent and blue underneath his pale, thin skin but they're indeed intact. She hates herself for giving it a look, but she can't ignore the relief she also undeniably feels in that instant.

"How about I also pee in a cup while we're at it?" House carries on spitefully, taking advantage of her embarrassment, as he starts undoing the button of his jeans next.

"Stop!" she demands when his hand moves to his fly next. "So you didn't take the heroin. Good for you! Why would I care anyway?"

"_Why_ would you care? I thought that was _all_ that you cared about: whether I took the drug or not," he bites, his comment deliberately acerbic.

"We are not going to discuss that again," she warns. "There was more to it than that, and you know it. It was not _just_ about the pill-"

"Really? Then what was it about Cuddy? I was there, _for you_. I took care of _you_. I freaked out, yes, but only because I was fucking scared of losing you! But you? You didn't even flinch when you dumped me. It's like I never even mattered to you. It was like you were just throwing away garbage."

She puffs, aggravated, and rolls her eyes skyward.

"Don't you dare! You think I wanted that? I never… wanted that!" she hiccups. "It was _you _who couldn't be with me. You couldn't-"

"And, here we are: the part about how I never was the docile, little puppy you wished I were."

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"It means, all those years, _**I**_ was the one who always had to prove myself worthy of you; because everything I did was never good enough _for_ _you_. When we were together you made me feel like shit most of the time. You always made sure I would never live up to your impossibly high standards. I tried, so fucking hard to meet your demands but you were never satisfied. Not even when I was only doing my job! You'd always set boundaries when it came to that but you'd also always understood _my ways_. You _knew_ they were unconventional but when we got together, all of a sudden, you changed the rules overnight. Suddenly you took offense that I had to lie to you to save patients' lives, which is something I'd always done!"

"It was not about the lies, it was about respect and-"

"Respect?! You think I didn't know what was at stakes in a _professional_ context for us? Every decision I made, I made it to save lives _and_ protect your ass from being held accountable in case things went south. I racked my brain over every case I had, trying to figure out the best way to do what was right without pissing you off in the process. I always thought about you! Always. But you, you only focused on the lies, as if it were some personal crusade against you."

"I was-"

"Selfish, demanding, and whimsical! You claimed you wanted uncommon, that you loved me for my screwed-upness, but you used sex to blackmail me so I'd do exactly what you wanted. And when it wasn't enough anymore you decided that toilet seats and toothpaste stains on your basin were more important than us!" He exclaims, hurt registering on his face.

She stares at him, visibly emotionally shaken by the unexpected, but mostly anachronistic intensity of his outburst. Unable to say a word, she gulps, uneasy, her eyes still locked with his.

"I didn't stand a chance, did I?" He whispers despondently.

"You locked yourself with a dying patient on a stupid, impulsive move just to prove a point and risked your life without a care about _my_ feelings," she whispers back, regretfully. "You chose getting drunk over spending an evening with me to celebrate an award I'd won... You chose Vicodin over me. You chose comfortable numbness over empathy for my pain."

"_No_. I chose you. Cuddy, I chose _you_ over my sobriety. And had you found out, I knew perfectly well what the risks were but… I did it all the same because…" He sighs heavily and averts his gaze briefly, gathering up some courage to carry on.

"You remember what you told me the day you broke up with me?" He asks, looking her in the eyes again. "You said that pain happens when you care. And, you can say anything you want to me but the hell if I let you say that I didn't care for you! I _know_ what pain feels like. Better than anyone-"

"Because your life _is_ pain, House."

"I don't mean the pain I feel in my leg." He clenches his fist and brings it to his chest, resting it atop his heart. "I mean, here… You made me feel pain here! How was I supposed to show you how I felt _here_, if you didn't even have faith that I could?"

Upon hearing his words, and his sudden resigned tone, she inhales a sharp intake of breath and briefly looks away.

"Why are you here if I'm that horrible bitch you describe?" She says wearily.

"Because… you sent me that letter," he replies recovering his poise. "Because you came to my place the other day and we made _love_. Because you _lied _to me about getting married and that lie means something!"

"It means I don't want to see you again."

"A lie."

"A truth!"

"No. _You_ gave up the first time. One day, you unilaterally declared that I couldn't live up to your expectations and you gave up _on us_. You didn't even give me one single chance to prove to you that you were wrong. But, this is my fault, too, because I let you. I didn't fight and I let you broke my heart, Cuddy. You shattered it to pieces and it hurt like hell but, I won't let that happen a second time. I don't want to be the one standing on a sidewalk and watching you move on, ever again."

"Watching _me_ move on? How dare you say that when you made me stand in front of a dozen guests in your living room, while you were getting married?... Oh, and how is your _wife_ by the way?" she spits bitterly.

"Gone. I filed for divorce."

"You _what_?"

"I'm getting a divorce. Yes, I'm clean and in less than a month, I'll be no longer married. I don't care about Dominika. I never cared about her…" He takes one tentative step towards her, and inhales deeply. "Cuddy… I love _you_. I will always love you."

"No!" As he comes closer, she takes a step back and points an accusing finger at him. "Don't come near me. Don't do that again…"

"Or else what? What are you afraid is gonna happen if I do?"

"Nothing. Nothing's gonna happen. It's over, House. I tried. I thought… But, _you_ screwed up. _You _escalated things to epic proportions…"

They're standing so close to each other in that instant, he can almost feel the warmth of her puffy breaths brushing past his neck.

"Then tell me you don't love me and I'll go." He stares into her eyes, boring a hole into her skull with the intensity of his gaze until her bottom lip starts trembling slightly and she averts her gaze, looking down at her feet.

He doesn't see her face but he hears her wobbling breath, as endless seconds of total silence fly by.

"I don't love you," she finally whispers, her voice low.

"No!" He protests. "Look at me and say it to my face! Say it like you really mean it."

She shots her head up and stares back at him, her eyes glistening with unshed tears that are threatening to fall. But she refuses to comply and keeps staring silently at him instead, with such maddening stubbornness it makes her look incredibly desirable, beautiful, and fragile and he wants to yank her in his arms so badly then, it aches more than words can say.

"Say it," he repeats meekly, his eyes pleading.

"I…" She closes her eyes as a single tear rolls down her cheek and she bites her lower lip, breathing deeply through her nose.

"Why did you come the other day? _Why_, Cuddy?"

"It was a mistake!" She exclaims, looking at him again. "I said I was sorry. I shouldn't have come. It was a _mistake_!"

"It wasn't. Because you _wanted_ to come. Everything that happened between us that night, you wanted it to happen, just like I did."

"No."

"I know you still love me, Cuddy. At least, I know you still _want_ me."

"I don't."

"I won't… I won't let you give up on me, like you already gave up on me once."

She clenches her jaw and shakes her head in dismay.

"You're scared," he goes on. "You're scared because you have feelings for the monster that crashed his car into your home and this doesn't feel right. Because _this_ is definitely not what's supposed to happen in your circles, am I right? But you're a coward, Cuddy. You let your sister and your mother decide what's right for you when you know this is not what _you_ want! What you want is to be with me. That's what your heart tells you. But you've stopped listening to yourself-"

"You're wrong," she denies with the energy of despair.

"No. Goddammit, you _wrote_ it to me-"

"I said I wanted you to let me go!"

"Then why aren't you with Mark anymore?"

Her eyes widen in surprise.

"Mark has nothing to do with any of this."

"_Mark is nice and thoughtful and handsome and exactly what I should wish for __**but he's not you**__._" he recites.

"Then what?"

"_I tried to convince myself it would take time before I would feel good in another man's arms. But then, __**I never felt it…**_" he carries on, unimpressed by her obvious reluctance to listen to him.

"It's _not_ just the sex!" She shouts, fuming with anger.

"I know," he says softly. "You don't want to get hurt anymore."

"I don't want to get hurt, _by you_, anymore. There's a difference. I don't want you in my life."

"And that's _a lie_. You _can't_ have me in your life because of what I did. _There_ is the difference. You're just afraid of what people will think. You're afraid of their judgmental-"

"I'm not afraid! It's not about what my sister or my mom, or people think. It's about you, House. You've ruined everything. _You_ and no one else. And there's no going back from that."

"_Why_?" he insists, like a stubborn child who needs all the answers.

"Why? Don't you see why?"

"What I see is that we both screwed up. We had a chance and we screwed it up. But it was doomed, right from the start. You showed up that night and I was a mess-"

"So what? You're saying this is my fault?" She blurts out angrily.

"No, I'm saying you were right. You should have listened to me," he says, quoting her words. "I told you it would fail. And you should have left me then. You shouldn't have let me have hope."

She bites her lips and sustains his gaze with a look of hurt on her face.

"Then why are you here, now?"

"For the same reason why you were at my place the other day... Because I can't get you out of my head, Cuddy. Because you're the whole book, too," he says, referring to her letter, once more. "I miss you. So much. And I know you miss me, too."

She shakes her head no, but doesn't say a word. Instead, she pleads him to stop, with a beseeching gaze, unable to fight the tears from gathering in her eyes again.

"You crashed your car into my home," she says after a while, as if that invalidated everything else he would say.

"I know," he replies sheepishly. "What I did that day… I know what damages it did to you. You have to believe me when I say that I really do know that. And not just because I read it in your letter. I knew, long before you wrote it how I'd made you feel. And I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry because… there's no rational explanation for what I did. I don't know _why_ it happened. But I know that the man who did that was _not_ me."

"Yet, I'm pretty sure I remember vividly that it was," she snaps bitterly.

"I was broken. I was a fucking mess and I was in pain, so much pain."

"You're always gonna be in pain."

"Not that kind of pain. You have no idea how it felt to lose you. You only saw what it did to me _on the outside_: the drugs, the marriage, all the childish shenanigans, and the reckless self-surgery…" He puffs and gently raises his hand to her face, close enough to touch the side of her cheek with his fingertips but he immediately moves it away and lets it fall along his thigh again. "But, even that is nothing compared to how I felt, _inside_…"

"That's not the point. The point is: you turned your feelings of hurt into a fit of destructive violence. What kind of man does that, House?"

He closes his eyes and tilts his head back for a second, trying to hold back the tears he feels welling up in his eyes.

"I don't know," he says abashedly. "I lost it. What I did was reckless, but I was _not _myself. You know it. Tell me you know it."

He can see the doubt in her eyes, the confusion and the pain and, in that instant it eats him alive to see her so resolutely distant and cold when he's felt her so close and warm just a few days ago only.

"Cuddy, I could never hurt _**you**_. Ever. If that's what you think then I'd rather be dead… I went to jail. I was locked in a cell for a year after what I did. You want me to tell you how it feels to be locked in a cell, _every day_, with nothing else to do but _think_, over and over again about what I did to you? You think I don't know? There's not one second that's passed ever since that day without me thinking about it. All the fucking time! I _know_ what I did."

"You just need me to forgive you so it'll make you feel good about yourself," she says reproachfully. "You don't need me. You don't-"

"You're right," he interrupts her, his steady voice indicating he's more determined to tell her how he feels than ever before. "It took me a long time to understand that but, fact is, _I don't need you_."

His words, definite and strong-willed, hit her like a slap. Her mouth falls agape and she stares at him, stunned. He registers her surprise instantly, and takes a step towards her, coming ever so slightly closer and looking her in the eyes with a reassuring gaze.

"When we first got together, I was broken. You came to me and I didn't even realize I _had_ you. Instead I kept thinking about how it'd feel if I lost you. I was… just needy… And I screwed up. I screwed up everything by fear of losing you… That's what kills us the first time. But, now I know. I know I don't _need_ you. What I need, I can take care of it myself. But what I _want_, only _you_ can give it to me. And _I want you_. There's a difference. I know you like no one else does, Cuddy. I know all your bullshits and your flaws and your fears and I don't care. I don't need you to fix me. You told me I was afraid to be happy once, but I'm not. I'm not afraid to be happy _with you_…"

"House…"

She's wanted to make it sound like a warning, but the only thing he's heard in her gentle plea, is the intensity of the struggle she's fighting against herself. It makes her look so vulnerable it reinforces his desire to be with her and to take care of her, even more. Somehow, it also comforts him in the absolute certainty that he will not give up this time. And if saying it a million times is what it takes to make her understand that, then he's willing to stand there, in front of her, until she will.

"I'm not going anywhere," he says softly.

"I have a daughter, I-"

"Yes, you do. And so what? Rachel _liked_ me," he says reminding her of her own words. "And I liked her, too. I know I never said I wanted to take care of her. Truth is, most of the time, you _forced_ me to babysit her. But, in the end, I got to spend time with her all the same. A lot of time. All those evenings when you couldn't be home because you had a meeting or paperwork to do and I was alone with her, we just… bonded… I was just too much of a coward to admit the truth… And, I thought you'd use it as another one of my weaknesses to rule me over so I acted like I didn't care but that's not true…"

Her wide eyes are so incredulous it somehow hurts him to realize that all this time she, indeed, never truly believed he could genuinely care for her daughter.

"What?" he snaps, his voice taking on a slightly angrier edge. "Yes, I miss her! You think it didn't affect me, too, to be denied the right to see her again, overnight? What kind of a heartless monster do you think I am?"

She tilts her head down and covers her face with her hands, rubbing her forehead just above the line of her eyebrows with her fingertips.

"God, this is so fucking… unbelievable," she says after a while, looking at him again. "_You_ are so fucking unbelievable!" Her tone is accusing and her eyes throw daggers at him. "Do you have any idea how much I'd have given then to hear you say that, just once?"

"I'm telling you now."

"NO! It doesn't work like that, House. You can't just reappear and claim you want a second chance because you've suddenly had an epiphany and-"

Her voice breaks and she stops in the middle of her sentence, staring at him with lost eyes.

"Yes, I can. _I am_," he says, his voice resolute. "This is not a whim, Cuddy. I know what I _want_. And I know you want it, too."

"I don't."

"Goddammit, why are you fighting this so hard?" he suddenly shouts, anger and frustration making his voice tremble within each word. "You can deny the truth all you want, I don't care. And you know _why_? Even if you chase after all the Lucas and Marks in the world, you'll never find what you want because _they're not me_! And I'm not gonna let you pretend that this means nothing. It's just another fucking lie you tell yourself because you're scared to admit how you feel."

She looks away, avoiding his gaze and he suddenly can't take it anymore. On impulse, he grabs her by the shoulders and backs her against the wall, pressing his body against hers as he stares down at her with demanding eyes.

"Look at me!" he compels.

He doesn't even realize he has her pinned against the concrete until she lifts her face and their eyes meet, equally burning and challenging.

"So now what?" She says fiercely. "You're going to beat me?"

The second she says it, he lets go of her and takes a few steps back, staring at her in shock.

"You really don't understand anything, do you?" he says, horrified. "Jesus fuck, Cuddy, don't you hear what I say? _I love you_. You can't rip that feeling off of me like it is just a tumor. And you can't keep lying to yourself and pretend I mean nothing to you either."

She takes a deep, wobbling breath and turns her head to the side, conspicuously avoiding his gaze. Sighing, he comes close to her again, and with a feather touch, delicately brushes her cheekbone with the pad of his thumb. She doesn't flinch, nor does she look at him, but she doesn't push him away either. She just keeps her head tilted to the side and closes her eyes, ever so slightly leaning back against the wall.

"After you told me you didn't want to see me again, you still came back," he tells her in a much softer voice, almost like a quiet murmur. "Because you knew you had to. You and I, we're the same. We're just stubborn, clueless, fucked-up people that don't know what they want half of the time but we never stop trying. The riskier, the better. That's what we do…"

Slowly, she turns her head to face him again and locks eyes with him.

"I did that horrible thing to you that you're not supposed to forgive. I know that. How do you think I feel, right now?" He asks, taking a small step towards her.

She doesn't move. She just watches him come closer without saying a word.

"I caused you pain, and you caused me pain, too, Cuddy. Eventually, we both hurt each other. But we still can't let each other go. You're the flame and I'm the moth. I will never _not_ be drawn to you. Even if it means being hurt again, I don't care…" Slowly, carefully, he takes another step towards her, the last one, and gently rests his forehead against her forehead. "You told me once that you needed to see if you and I could work," he whispers with a raspy voice. "But the thing is, we never tried..."

"Yes, we did. We did and it didn't work," she whispers back regretfully.

"No. You know it's not true. We never _really_ tried… But we could try _now_. Don't tell me you didn't think about it. I know you did, and it terrified you to even consider it. I understand. You're terrified and you're angry and you have every right to," he carries on. "I hurt you, then I disappeared and you never had a chance to let that anger out, but I'm here now. You can let it out, Cuddy."

He straightens up to look at her and she sends him a quizzical glance, unsure of what he's really asking of her in that instant. But as soon as her eyes meet his, she sees it in his imploring gaze.

"Go ahead. Do it."

"No," she says, her eyes widening as realization hits her. "I'm not gonna-"

"Come on…" he urges.

Her lips start trembling and she shakes her head 'no' forcefully. Once again, but gentler this time, he backs her against the wall and presses his hips against her hips. She tries to set herself free but he presses harder so she clenches her fist and hits him once, weakly, on the top of his torso, just below his collarbone. She stares at her hand and he stares down at her, without budging. She hits him another time, harder and he sticks his chest out, pinning her against the wall again. The third time she punches him, she really hits him with all her might, but he still doesn't move and stomachs the blow. Their eyes meet and he sets his lips, determinedly showing her that he's bracing himself for what's to come. She whimpers hesitantly but, after a few seconds, she starts hitting him, again, with both fists this time, punching his chest as hard as she can until tears begin streaming down her cheeks while she keeps punching, again and again, until her rage subsides and her the rhythm of her punches gradually slows down, as her fists finally stop moving and rest on his chest, inert. He grabs her by the shoulders then and effortlessly pulls her away from him and he searches for her gaze, lifting her face up with his finger tucked under her chin. They lock eyes and when he sees the pain in her eyes, mixed with relief, he smiles at her, a shy, reassuring smile that says it's ok and he's not mad at her and somehow he wanted her to do it. Sobs start shaking her, and she sags into his arms, where he welcomes her, enveloping her petite frame in his large embrace. For a short while, she presses her damp face against his chest and he caresses her back soothingly but soon, she wiggles in his embrace and, demandingly, she cups his face inside her hands to pull him down to her, claiming his mouth as soon as his lips come in contact with her lips. Her need is raw and violent, almost as violent as the anger she's just expressed only seconds before.

She presses her hands on his face more urgently and pushes her tongue between his teeth, kissing him with voracious fervor as soon as he grants her access. Her hands clutch at his shirt, tugging at the fabric with impatient, disorganized movements until she can finally reach underneath to touch his skin. She puts her hands on his belly, sliding her palms towards his waist and pulling him closer to her. He knows without a doubt just then that the wildness of her passionate outburst is somehow an indicator of how long she's been trying to repress it, and he finds himself incapable of resisting her call. He wraps his arms around her and squeezes her tight against him, one of his hands roaming her back while the other combs her hair and cups the back of her skull inside his palm. She moans through his lips, and scratches his abdomen mercilessly and he suddenly feels the need to break away from their kiss to gasp for air. They stare at each other in awe for some endless, silent seconds where the only sounds he can register are the thudding beats of his heart echoing in his ears.

He doesn't move. She does. She takes his hand inside her hand and, unhesitant, she leads him towards the bed. She only lets go of his hand to take her clothes off, which she does in a flash, as he watches her, fascinated by her eagerness. When she stands naked in front of him, she undresses him, with equal impatience and then she takes his hand in hers again, falling backward onto the mattress, and yanking him down with her.

"Fuck me, House," she says, throwing her arms around his neck and wrapping her legs around his thighs.

He knows the significance of that demand. He's satisfied it so many times before, back when they were so hungry for each other they sometimes couldn't even wait to be entirely naked, or in bed to quench their yearning. It means messy, sweaty and rough. It means no tender touch, no sweet talking except for the dirty words he knows she wants him to coax her with, while he will grind his hips against hers and thrust into her mercilessly until she will cry out his name and beg for mercy. So he fucks her, hard, just like she wants him to. He says the words she wants to hear. In her ear, he whispers how much her tight little cunt feels good around his cock. She gasps and she moans 'yes' with a throaty voice and he bites the round shape of her shoulder when she arches her back, in _that_ way only she knows, to find the perfect angle that will allow him to pound deeper and harder into her. Just before they find their release, he cups her face inside his hands and he stares intensely at her, searching for the answers behind her gaze, but she just bites her lip and gasps, and then her body starts quaking underneath him and she tilts her head to the side, moaning his name as he buries his face into the crook of her neck and lets the wave swallow him as well.

"This is insane," she says shortly after, a little out of breath, as she snuggles up against him and rests her head on his chest.

He welcomes her in his arms and gently strokes up and down the length of her forearm, without saying a word.

"Shh," he finally tells her softly. "Don't talk."

"But-" she says, lifting her ever so slightly to look at him.

"Please…"

She falls silent again and he takes a deep breath, only relishing the warmth of her body along his. When her breathing becomes even and he knows she's asleep, he stares at the ceiling for long, silent minutes without moving. Then he tilts his head down, heedful not to wake her up, and he looks at her beautiful face, so peaceful and relaxed in her slumber it's hard to imagine she was so passionate and fierce in his arms only moments before. He closes his eyes and, for a second, he tightens his grasp to bring her as close to him as possible and feel her silky skin caress his skin. He takes her hand that rests limply on his torso in his and gently moves it away. She moans in her sleep and rolls on her back away from him.

He gets up, next, slowly. In the dimly lit room, he searches for his clothes and gets dressed. Then, in the lounge area, he finds a note pad, and a pen and he sits down on the chair in front of the desk to write.

_Cuddy, _

_I wrote you a letter, too. But there were no lies in it. Just the truth about me feeling so miserable without you. I wrote you that letter to tell you how sorry I am. But sorry is only a word and it means nothing compared to the way I really feel. Compared to the way I tried to tell you how I feel._

_You're right, this is insane. We can't keep doing this. There is no prince charming out there. It is either me, or guys named Mark, and it's up to you to decide which one of them you want. I am not perfect. Yes, I'm flawed and screwed-up. But I love you. I have nothing other than that to offer you. I will never be the nice guy your family approves of but, I promise you I will drug your mother whenever she's a pain in the ass if you need me to. I will never be the ideal father figure, but I will watch pirate cartoons with Rachel and give her cheese doodles when we play, if you agree to let me play with her. I will not always be a tender lover, but I will whisper all the dirty words you love me to whisper in your ear when we have sex if you want to. And maybe I won't come to every gala and charity dinner with you, but I will play music for you and cook for you instead every other day if you like me to. I will probably never live in a mansion, but I still love the idea... It doesn't matter anyway because I would live under a bridge as long as it means being with you. But, Cuddy, I can't be with you if you don't want to be with me, too. _

_I could wait another hundreds years and keep telling you, every day, that I do love you; that I will be there for you, that I won't let you down, that I will stay clean but those are just words… and what value do words have if you never put them into action? I could wait, but I could also prove to you that I mean what I say, by being with you and do all those things for you every day, for real. Life is about taking risks, Cuddy, and there is no risk if you stop trying…_

_I'm a reckless choice, I know that. I'm mad about you and it's certainly scary, for you and for the people who cares about you. I've even been quite literally mad about you once, when I went to Mayfield because even in my drug-induced hallucinations you were always the one... And, I was mad about you the day I ran my car into your home… _

_We will never have a clean slate. You were right: I did that to you and it will always be there between us. But it will only be there as long as you'll let it be the last memory you want to keep of me. We can have other memories, together, happier ones. I will never want to hurt you, intentionally. I just believe we deserve to try again, for real, this time. And I know you believe it, too._

_I'm a reckless choice. But I can't make that choice for you… _

_H._

He glances behind him, in the space where the bed is and he makes out the curvaceous outlines of her naked body under the sheets. Her back is turned to him and he only sees her bare shoulder blades, and the round shape of her ass, as she lies on her side, curled up in a ball. He puts his hand inside the back pocket of his jeans and fishes the picture of her as Sleeping Beauty he's brought with him before coming to her hotel. He stares at the photograph one last time and delicately puts it atop the letter that he lays in the center of the desk, to make sure she will see it when she wakes up.

And then, he leaves.

Several hours later, in the middle of the night, Cuddy is woken by a sensation of cold as a shiver runs down her spine. She rolls to the side and, still numb from sleep, she feels around, patting the mattress beside her with her hand, only to realize that she's alone in the bed. She sits up straight and looks around her apprehensively, even though she already knows there's nobody in the room anymore.

"House?" she still calls, as she feels her heart racing up in her chest.

She gets up and walks to the bathroom, in the hope that he'll maybe be there, but he's not. She goes to the lounge area and there, on the desk, she sees the letter he's written. Before she even starts reading it, she feels tears gathering in her eyes. She sits down on the chair and takes the sheet of paper in her hands. When she's read the last line, a single tear rolls down her cheek and she closes her eyes, as his letter slips from her fingers and falls, flitting, on the floor.

* * *

_**A/N**_

_A warm, heartfelt thank you to IHeartHouseCuddy, oc7ober, Asia, OldSFfan, vicpei1, lenasti16, JLCH, Abby, freeasabird14, HuddyGirl, Boo's House, Alex, linda12344, Paulac45, Lize, Huddy4ever, MystryGAB, precioussoulandsweetcheeksiin1, bere, Faby for reading and commenting the previous chapter. (And, OMG, Noémie where were you?! :0)_

_Also, a huge thank you to every one of you who stopped by and read this story so far, even adding it to your list of favorites. _

_I'm leaving tomorrow on a nine-day mission for work. I'll be away until May, 6 and completely unable to write as I'll be busy almost 24/7 from Monday to Monday, week-end and holiday included… meh :(_

_In short, that means I'll only be able to update this story when I'm back, or more precisely a few days after I'm back… sorry._

_Meanwhile, keep your faith. Only one chapter to go and then the epilogue… :)_

_Have a nice day ~ maya _


	12. Chapter 12

_Hi everyone!_

_So I'm back from my mission… And I've finally found the time to finish writing this chapter, which is the last "regular" chapter for this story. _

_I hope you'll enjoy reading it._

* * *

**** I Will Always Choose You ****

– **Chapter 12 –**

She hadn't called.

House had gone straight home after he'd left her hotel room that night and she hadn't called him. Not the day after, and not the day after that either. He'd laid all his feelings bare for her to see and it hadn't been enough. _He_ hadn't been enough. The choice was crystal clear, though, at least to him. He'd never before in his life been more honest and straightforward about what he truly wanted, and what he was ready to do to have it.

When he'd come back home that night, he knew that the bet he'd just taken was a risky one. He had her, and yet, he'd still chosen to leave. Maybe that was it. Maybe he would never see her again and that fragile, emotional parenthesis would always remain just that: a parenthesis…

But, he had to do it. As risky and crazy and stupid as it was, deep down, he knew that leaving was his only sane option. There would always be that unavoidable physical attraction between them, something they would never be able to fight or repress no matter how screwed up everything else around would be but he needed more than just that. He _wanted_ more. Even though, during the past two years, her touch, her skin, her smell, the sensation of her body wrapped around his and the intoxicating power of their lustful dance was something he'd undeniably missed, more than excruciatingly so, that was not what he wanted from her the most. Sure, their sexual connection would always be mind-blowing and irresistible and wild. Of that he had no doubt. But if he couldn't get everything else, good or bad, every other moment, each second of every day, simple or complicated, quiet or passionate, every fit of anger, fear, tenderness, love, support, laughter, joy, all the fights, stupid fights about nothing they would have, and all the hot reconciliations over those fights they would share, then there was no point in having her at all. Not point in wanting her in his life, day after day.

House was not used to being so absolutely certain about anything other than scientific facts. Still, for the first time in his life, he had unwavering self-confidence about what he wanted, on a purely emotional level, and that feeling was oddly comforting to him. He'd come to her on a Friday. After the week-end had passed, the realization that he'd maybe lost her for good slowly dawned on him. But he'd gone all in, laid his cards on the table and said everything that had to be said. Everything…

What was left for him to do?

Come to her, again? And then what? Beg? Yell? Threaten her? Threaten her to do what, anyway? No. If there was something he'd learned to accept about her over the years, sometimes in the most cruel, painful way, it was that she was not someone he would tame. Ever. And, God forbid, taming her was the last thing he wanted to do, anyway. He loved her exactly because she _was_ untamable. He loved her because she was exhausting, unnerving, challenging, and rebellious. He loved her and… she hadn't called.

At some point during the week-end, quite predictably, Wilson had sneaked in to check on him, eager to hear every detail about how things had gone between him and Cuddy at the hotel. House had played it cool, undermining the devastating effect that her resulting silence had had on him. Wilson had patted him on the shoulder, and offered to drown this fateful irony in Bourbon and the idea had seemed like a good one at first but, after five minutes of Wilson's famous, unbearable display of empathy, House had kicked him out, unable to deal with his friend's concern, no matter how genuine because it had felt more like pity and House had always hated pity, above all else.

Monday, and Tuesday had gone by as well, and House was starting to consider making changes in his life, finding new goals, or at least trying new horizons. He had his freedom. In every sense of the word, he was indeed free again: freed from prison, from drugs, from his sham marriage. He could do anything. Go anywhere he pleased. Choose whatever he wanted to choose. And be accountable to no one for those choices… Freedom was a decent option, right? Better than being locked behind bars, or beaten by creepy criminals who took advantage of his disability. Better than being married to someone he didn't love, or didn't even know. Better than being addicted to drugs, irritable, and disillusioned.

Better than being alone?

# # # # # # #

"Come on, let's go grab some beers!" Wilson chants entering House's office.

"Sorry, I'll pass," House grumbles, looking down at the notes on his desk.

"House, you've been wallowing in misery over the past five days. You need to-"

"I'm not wallowing! I'm meditating. That's different."

As he tilts his head up to look his friend in the eyes, he pouts theatrically to emphasize his point.

"You're not meditating at all. You just sit there, doing nothing!" Wilson argues. "Just get your ass off of that chair and go have some fun."

House frowns dubiously and stares at Wilson who raises his chin up a bit to sustain the diagnostician's scrutinizing gaze.

"It's the middle of the afternoon. I'm told there're people dying of cancer at this hour that you're supposed to take care of."

"No one's dying. At least, no one's going to die _now_. Let's go!"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa! Who are you and what have you done to Wilson?"

"I'm buying," the oncologist says, totally unimpressed.

"You're _always_ buying! That's, like, the Mother of invalid arguments," House replies, not budging.

Moving next to the coatrack, Wilson unhangs House's leather jacket and unceremoniously throws it in his direction. House catches it _in extremis_ before it can fall on the messy pile of documents atop his desk.

"I can't leave my team alone," he argues, with perfectly faked seriousness, as he puts the leather jacket away, laying it on one of the chair's arms.

"Your team doesn't need you. They're doing just fine on their own."

"Ouch! Words can hurt, you know?"

"No, _truth_ can hurt. Seriously, when was the last time you got really involved in a case, anyway?" Wilson challenges, arching his eyebrows in a provoking manner. "So are you coming or not?" he adds, crossing his arms over in chest, showing growing signs of impatience.

House squints at him, a little bit intrigued, but finally gets up and puts his jacket on.

"Fine. But, if we get caught playing hooky, I'll tell the headmaster that it was your idea!" He grabs his cane before limping past Wilson and exiting his office. After a few seconds, Wilson follows suit, a large, self-satisfied smile curling the corners of his lips upward.

"I'll meet you at Connelly's," House says, walking towards his bike, once they arrive in the parking garage.

"No, no, no!" Wilson protests, a little too quickly, which causes House to stop dead in his tracks and turn around to eye Wilson suspiciously. "I mean, I've come across this new bar the other day…"

"And?"

"And… the place is cool."

"So is Connelly's."

"Oh, for the love of God! Just get in the damn car and stop whining," Wilson snaps aggravated, opening the door to his car and sitting behind the stirring wheel.

House looks around the empty parking garage with a quick scanning glance and sighs heavily, as he resignedly complies and enters the car, too. He's barely taken his seat that Wilson turns the engine on and drives off with a loud screeching sound.

"This is very interesting," House says, turning to the side to observe his friend.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Wilson replies, conspicuously focusing on the road ahead as they exit the parking garage.

During the ride, House pays little attention to the road, too preoccupied to scrutinize the oncologist's profile and find in any of his expression wrinkles some hints that will help him understand the reason why Wilson suddenly felt like leaving PPTH in the middle of the day to drag him in a bar with him.

"You met a bartender," he states, after a while, narrowing his eyes to study Wilson's reaction.

Wilson rolls his eyes upward but doesn't answer.

"Stripper?" House suggests, not giving up.

Still not answering, Wilson sighs and briefly turns his head to the side, shooting House a dismayed look.

"What's the name of that place?"

"Why does it matter?"

"Ugh, w_hy?_" House exclaims extravagantly. "You went to a bar. A _new _bar. _Without me_… I have every right to think this is highly suspicious."

"I go to plenty of bars without you, House. And so do you. Only your paranoid mind would see that as suspicious."

"No, no, no. You're not the barfly type. You like to take your dates to fancy restaurants and artsy exhibitions-"

"Just so we're clear, this is not a date!" Wilson objects, unable to repress the amused grin that appears on his face.

House doesn't have time to find the right, witty comeback because Wilson pulls over next, and turns the engine off. For the first time in the ten minutes or so that the drive took, House jerks his head to the side and looks outside the window, finally paying attention to his surroundings and realizing that he's nowhere near a bar, or even less the kind of neighborhoods where the bars he usually spends his time in would be.

"Or… maybe this is," he adds cryptically, his teasing remark going totally unnoticed, as the diagnostician is busy staring outside, completely bemused.

Just across the sidewalk along which the car is parked, there's the entry to a small park, and in the distance, House can make out a playground where several children are playing, climbing ladders and sliding down colorful slides. Swiftly shifting on his car seat to face Wilson again, House shoots him a panic look, his eyes wide in obvious puzzlement, as he's visibly trying to comprehend what the purpose of them being here is.

"What the-" he barely manages to articulate, confused.

"Get out of the car," Wilson prompts him gently.

"What do you mean, get out of the car? If this is some kind of 'drop the cripple in no man's land and see how he finds his way back on his own' sick game, I'm warning you, I'm not playing-"

"Get out of the car, House!" He repeats, more abruptly this time. "Don't act more stupid than you are. Get out, _now_, and just get the fuck there."

Again, House looks over his shoulder, incredulous, and stares in the square's direction for long, silent seconds. The park is small enough for him to scan the entire place, at least, check every bench and chair that is placed all around the greenery.

And then, he sees _her_.

She's seated on a bench, alone, in an isolated corner of the park. She looks nervous, as she's checking her watch and glances around her with unmistakable impatience. He doesn't quite believe he hasn't noticed her the first time he's looked because she's undeniably the most noteworthy person in the entire space. Or maybe it is because she's just definitely and irremediably bound to be unique to his eyes especially. Taking a deep breath, House grabs his cane that he's put between his legs when he entered the car and with a shaky hand, he reaches for the handle, opening the door hesitantly. Before he exits the car, he glances at Wilson one last time and the oncologist simply answers with an encouraging nod, without saying a word.

As House enters the park, passing through the gate, he hears the sound of Wilson's car driving off but he doesn't look back. Instead, fixing his gaze upon Cuddy, and taking advantage of the fact that she's looking in the opposite direction, he walks determinedly towards her bench, hoping that she will not turn her head in his direction right away, and that he'll get as close to her as he can before she'll notice him. And indeed, he manages to walk merely a few steps away from her before the characteristic off-beat sound of his limping footsteps betrays him and she suddenly jerks her head to the side to look at him. When their eyes meet, he freezes, unable to approach any way nearer.

"Hey!" She says, softly.

He gulps, and looks down at his feet, trying to control his ragged breathing.

"Hey!" He answers, almost inaudibly, looking up again, everywhere but at her.

"I half-expected Wilson to have to drug you with sleeping pills to get you here," she says, with a teasing voice.

Incapable of holding back the urge to look at her any longer, he shoots his head in her direction and locks eyes with her.

"So, you're the brain behind this kidnapping master plan?" he teases back, smiling.

"Sue me."

"Why?"

"I read your letter. Well, part of it, at least…" she says, biting her bottom lip seductively.

House takes a deep breath and crosses his hands atop his cane's handle, squaring his shoulders and looking down at her quizzically.

"Are you planning on standing here the whole time, or are you gonna sit down at some point?" She adds, a bit reproachfully.

Sighing dramatically, he complies nonetheless and takes a seat on the bench beside her. But not too close. As soon as he's seated, he lowers his head and looks down at the ground through the space between his knees, his forehead resting atop his cane. Silence settles between them for a while.

"It's Wednesday." His voice is filled with a mix of sadness and relief.

He doesn't look at her, but he can see she's staring at him from the corner of his eyes.

"I know," she answers in a whisper, sliding on the bench to come closer to him.

When her body is close enough that their legs almost touch, he can feel the rhythm of his heartbeats accelerate in his chest. Slowly, he turns to the side and looks at her. She inhales a sharp intake of breath and looks back at him, a shy smile on her face.

"I needed a little bit of prep time to get my mother and Julia ready to… err… stomach my choice," she murmurs.

"What choice?"

"_You_, idiot," she says, looking him right in the eyes. "You're my choice. And I knew, the moment you left the hotel the other day that you would be. Maybe even before that. I knew all along, House. Because I choose you. I will always choose you."

She takes his hand in her hand and smiles, her most reassuring smile, in a way that says how much she remembers the night when he'd told her the same to let him know that she didn't choose to tell him the exact same words by chance.

House looks down at their joined hands, and closes his eyes for a second, as if he needed to focus on the sound of her words, still echoing in his ears, to be able to truly believe she said them.

"Are you sure?" He looks somehow incredulous, or maybe simply not ready to quite trust the significance of those five words.

_I will always choose you._

He'd said them to her once, and he'd meant them more than he'd ever meant anything before. Still, she'd left him all the same, barely a few days afterwards.

"House," she coos with the softest voice, closing her slender hand around his fingers tighter, "look at me." He does as he's told and stares into her light-grey gaze. Her face is serene, and her eyes glisten in the afternoon light. "You were right. I was scared. I… _am_ scared. What you did to me doesn't make it easy for me to make that choice-"

"Then don't," he snaps, hurt registering in his tone, as he hastily removes his hand from hers.

"Shut up and listen to me!" she orders, glowering at him.

She grabs his hand once more and forcefully squeezes it so he can't escape her grip.

"It's not easy, but I don't care. I _want_ to make that choice."

"What about your mother, or your sister? What did they say?"

"I… they… uh…" she falters out, looking away.

"You didn't tell them, did you?"

"Because I needed to see you first! I didn't know if you'd reject me or not."

"You still don't know that."

Her mouth falls agape and she stares at him, stunned.

"What? Are you saying you've changed your mind? That… what you told me in your letter meant nothing?" Her wide eyes send daggers at him as she's waiting for his answer but he stares back at her, completely silent.

"Fuck you, House!" she snaps angrily, after a beat, letting go of his hand and getting up.

He catches her wrist just before she fully stands and pulls her back on the bench, forcing her to sit down again.

"I meant every word I said," he tells her, with a gravelly voice.

Even though she still looks angry and hurt, she can't hold back the sigh of relief that escapes her lips in that moment.

"Then what's the problem?"

"What's gonna happen when your mother finds out that you got back with the psychopath that crashed his car into your house?"

"You're not a psychopath!" Cuddy instantly denies, showing signs of distress.

"Do you think Arlene sees it like that?" He provokes, his tone deliberately harsh.

"I don't care," she replies, unwavering, raising her chin up defiantly.

"What about Julia? What are you gonna answer her when she tells you how absolutely insane she thinks you are?"

"I'll tell her this is none of her business!"

"And your colleagues?"

"I. DON'T. CARE!" she shouts.

He intensely stares at her for a while, challengingly, and when she doesn't flinch but instead sustains his gaze with even more stubborn determination, he heaves a deep sigh and briefly looks away.

"Cuddy," he says, meeting her gaze again. "There's nothing virtual about this. _This_ is real life. All those people you care about, they're going to judge you, disagree with your choice, try to make you change your mind…"

"I'm not gonna change my mind," she tells him assertively.

He puffs but smiles fondly at her, unable to suppress the pride and tenderness he feels for her in that instant, the most stubborn and amazing woman he's ever known.

"Come on, even you don't really believe that," he scolds gently.

"So that's what this is about?" Her eyebrows arch in surprise. "You're afraid I'm gonna leave you again?"

"It's always going to be a possibility," he states, more factually than resignedly.

"I forbid you to say that!"

"Why? That's the truth."

"No. That is _not_ the truth. That is just-"

"Cuddy," he says, sighing. "It's ok-"

Out of the blue, she shifts on the bench to sit directly facing him and plants her eyes in his, compellingly staring at him.

"Do you love me, House?" she asks, her tone clearly demanding him not to bullshit her with a deflecting answer.

"Yeah," he whispers, looking away. "Yes," he repeats immediately, his voice louder and steadier. "I love you."

"And _**I**_ love you, too. You hear me? I tried to fight this. I tried to forget you. I fucking tried, ok?" she says, sounding angry, all of a sudden. "So you have no right to give up on us, now. I won't let you, I-"

"I'm not giving up."

"But what?"

"But…" He looks at her, and slowly raises his hand to her face, gently brushing her cheek with his fingertips. She closes her eyes and sighs voluptuously, leaning into his touch, the first since they're sitting together on that bench. "I'm a risky choice, Cuddy," he says, quoting his own words. "I just wanna be sure you really understand all the implications behind your choice before you regret making it, again."

"You remember what you said to me the other day at the hotel? You said we never really _tried_. And… I didn't want to admit it at first, but… you're right… Our timing sucked and we never tried, not really anyway. But things are different, now."

"How so?"

"Because you _want_ me. And I want you, House. This is not going to be easy, I know that. But we're going to try. For real, this time. There's never going to be a good time for that but if you want this like I want this, then we just-"

"Need to try."

"Yeah."

She cups the side of his face in her hand and gently caresses the rough patch of his stubble with her palm. They stare intensely in each other's eyes and then she leans to him, slowly, and brushes his lips with her lips in a soft, almost shy kiss. The warm contact instantly makes him shiver and he takes a sharp breath, sliding his hand to the back of her neck and pulling her closer to him to deepen the kiss. She gives in for a while, moaning through his lips and putting her hand on his shoulder for leverage but when their tongue meet and they both feel the familiar twinge pervading them, Cuddy is the one reluctantly breaking their kiss, sighing as she gently pushes him away with her palm.

"There's someone here who wants to see you," she says, after a while.

Instantly, he shoots her an anxious glance, already knowing whom she's referring to.

"Just… Wait here, ok?" she asks, getting up.

He watches her as she walks away towards the playground and follows her with his eyes until she approaches a little girl who's sitting on a swing, while a woman of a certain age gently pushes her back and forth. The woman is unfamiliar to House, but from where he sits and by the way Cuddy talks to her briefly he assumes she must be Rachel's nanny. His eyes shift to the little girl, as Cuddy holds her hand and they both walk back in his direction, side by side. Rachel looks undeniably different than in the last memories he's kept of her. Taller, of course, but that's not surprising, and less chubby-cheeked, too. She doesn't really look like a grown child yet, but not really like a toddler anymore. Her hair seems longer, too, but House can't really tell it for sure. He stares at the kid, unaware of the intensity of his gaze on her and, it overwhelms him: the vision of the two of them, irremediably coming closer causes a lump to get caught in the back of his throat and suddenly, he finds it hard to breathe. The thudding beats of his heart echo in his ears and it makes him feel dizzy. As Cuddy and her daughter take the last steps that separate them from the bench where he's seated, he can't control his reaction any longer. Abruptly, he stands up and almost out of instinct, takes a step away. His eyes meet Cuddy's reassuring gaze and he freezes on the spot, setting his lips firmly and tightening his grasp on his cane's handle.

"Rachel," Cuddy says with a soft voice, cupping the back of her daughter's skull with one of her hands, as the other still holds her protectively against her, "do you remember what I told you before we came here, today?"

The little girl doesn't answer, but instead wiggles to set herself free from her mother's grasp. When she's removed her hand from Cuddy's, she takes a few determined steps forward and plants herself right in front of House, perfectly unimpressed, as she tilts her head up to look him right in the eyes with a piercing gaze. For what seems like an eternity, she neither moves nor speaks. She just stares at the man in front of her, her big blue eyes wide open with unmistakable curiosity.

"Hey, kiddo," House finally says, breaking the silence, his voice unsure and low.

"I'm not kiddo," the child states assertively. "I'm Rachel."

House's eyebrows arch in mocked surprise and he nods solemnly.

"Alright," he concedes cautiously. "You're Rachel. I'm-"

"House!" she exclaims, a large grin illuminating her face. "I know you," she adds proudly.

"Really?"

"Yes. Mommy says you is her very dear friend,"

"Are," House corrects, on impulse, before even realizing he does.

Rachel pouts and tilts her head to the side, eying him up skeptically.

"You… _are_… not _is_," House explains, catching Cuddy's amused gaze. "Never mind," he mumbles looking away.

"Are you mommy's dear friend?" Rachel asks, with the characteristic spontaneity of a five-year-old.

House is instantly caught off guard by the little girl's question, and desperately seeks support in Cuddy's eyes, silently asking her what the most appropriate thing to say is. From where she stands, behind her daughter, she silently nods and smiles reassuringly at him.

'Uh… yeah, you could say that," House replies, scratching the back of his neck to hide his discomfort.

Rachel simply nods, too, visibly satisfied with his answer. Then, she takes a step closer and points at House's cane with her tiny index finger.

"Where's the pirate head?" she says self-confidently.

House frowns and looks down at his cane.

"What do you mean?" He asks, intrigued.

"I…" Rachel squirms hesitantly for a few seconds, looking down at her feet. "I remember you had a pirate on your cane," she says in a very low voice, as if afraid her confession might be inappropriate or uncalled-for.

House's mouth falls agape and he looks down at the little girl, completely taken aback.

"You mean… the silver skull?" he asks, incredulous.

"What's a skull?" Rachel asks ingeniously.

"A skull is… it's the bony part of your head that encloses your brain," he tells her, with seriousness.

Rachel looks up at him, clearly confused.

"Like… uh… skull and crossbones, on pirates' flag!" House adds, forcing a smile.

The little girl's eyes light up as she obviously visualizes the image.

"Yessss!" she exclaims enthusiastically. "Where's the sklull on your cane?" she insists, stumbling on the new word she just learned.

"It's, err... it's on another cane."

"Oh," Rachel says, clearly disappointed.

Again, House searches for Cuddy's gaze, but she just looks back at him, with a fond gaze, raising her eyebrows expectantly. He sighs, and puts one hand on his knee, cautiously bending to squat down to the little girl's level.

"But hey, look," he says, suppressing a wince when the uncomfortable position triggers pain in his right leg as he holds his cane for Rachel to see. "This one's got flames at the bottom."

Upon seeing the designed flame cane, Rachel's eyes widen in wonderment and after silently seeking for House's approval, she holds out her hand to touch the wood and brush the outlines of the flames with her fingers.

"Pretty cool, uh?" House says, getting up again.

The little girl instantly nods in excitement.

"Pretty coooool," she repeats, grinning mischievously.

"Are you gonna live in our house and sleep in mommy's bed?" she asks, after a short silence, squinting at him.

House gulps and panic starts spreading across his features.

"I… uh… I don't know," he stutters, feeling uneasy. Then he tilts his head up and looks Cuddy right in the eyes. "I… _hope_," he amends. "At least the part about…"

"Ok, sweetie!" Cuddy exclaims, swiftly taking a step in her daughter's direction and gently putting a hand on her shoulder. "Mommy and House need to talk, just the two of them for a little while. So why don't you go join Magda on the playground and I'll come see you later to give you a kiss?"

Rachel instantly sucks on her bottom lip and looks up at Cuddy with sad eyes.

"I don't want you to leave," she moans, her lips quivering.

To defuse the inevitable, upcoming crisis, Cuddy promptly crouches down in front of her daughter and caresses her cheek reassuringly.

"Rachel, sweetie, what'd I tell you? I'm _not_ leaving, ok? I'm just going to be away for one night, and then tomorrow morning I'll be back. Meanwhile, you're going to stay with Magda and she's going to take good care of you. I heard she knows a place where they make the most delicious waffles in New Jersey. And if you're a good little girl, maybe Magda will take you there… What do you say?"

Rachel hesitates for a second and looks away, absorbing her mother's words.

"Do they have whipped cream and chocolate fudge?" She asks, with a pout.

Standing next to them, House sniggers, visibly amused and Cuddy shoots him a glare. He shrugs and smiles, but conspicuously looks away as Cuddy returns her attention to her daughter.

"Yes," she says. "They have whipped cream, and chocolate fudge _and_ peanut butter."

"Ok," Rachel says, a bit reluctantly, but still knowing there's no point in arguing any further with her mother.

When she's returned to the playground with her nanny, Cuddy turns to face House again and smiles shyly at him.

"So?" House asks teasingly, coming closer and wrapping his arms around her waist to pull her to him. "Did I pass?"

"What?"

"Did I pass the test, with Rachel?" He says, all traces of banter disappearing from his voice.

Cuddy stiffens in his embrace and looks away, embarrassed.

"There is no test!" She defends herself, rather unconvincingly.

"Oh please, I saw the way you looked at me the entire time!" He exclaims, though non-judgmentally.

She puts her hands on his shoulders and snuggles up closer to him, taking a deep breath and opening her mouth to answer.

"It's ok. I understand," he speaks first before she gets a chance to explain herself.

"House," she sighs. "Rachel wanted to see you. When I told her about you _she_, and no one else, decided that she wanted to see you. She likes you a lot."

"She's not exactly the shy type," he says, looking down at her with a smile.

"She's very curious, yes."

"Curiosity is good," he declares, and there's a hint of pride in his voice. "And she's got a good memory, too. Did you see how she remembered about my silver skull cane? I mean, I maybe had it, like, for only three or four months after we got together and yet, she still-"

Tenderly, Cuddy cups the side of his face with her left hand and gently presses the pad of her thumb over his mouth to silence him.

"You're going to get along great," she says, looking him straight in the eyes with a loving gaze.

House feeling suddenly self-conscious, inhales a sharp intake of breath and averts his eyes.

"At least, I'm sure things are gonna be way easier with her than they're bound to be with my mom," Cuddy adds, catching his attention again.

"Thank God, there's always Zolpidem, the great destroyer of all annoying Jewish mothers!" He answers, waggling his eyebrows playfully.

"Or… maybe we could try not to rely on drugs straight away and see how it goes."

"You're saying that now, but-"

"It's gonna be ok, House," she tells him reassuringly.

"Yeah," he whispers, tightening his embrace, and nuzzling her neck for a while. "What are we gonna do now?"

"We're going to have sex," she answers, confidently.

"In case you haven't noticed, we're in a park. A very public one at that," he deadpans, straightening up and frowning at her.

"I didn't mean _now_, you idiot! But, tonight. And… none of us will leave in the middle of the night, this time."

For a second, he says nothing and just studies her face, quizzically.

"So, correct me if I'm wrong: first you have me kidnapped by Wilson then you ditch the rugrat for the night so you and I can have sex? Wow, are you going to boss me around all the time like that or is it just this one time?"

"I'm not bossing you around!" she instantly objects, sounding vexed.

"Chillax!" he teases, repressing a chuckle. "FYI, you bossing me around is a massive turn-on. I may even want to reenact that kidnapping scenario, who knows? See how creative you can get as my merciless abductor."

"Stockholm syndrome already?" she says, mischievously.

"Hey, that's a real thing!" he protests, theatrically.

"So…" she says, her voice taking on a more serious intonation, as she extricates herself from his embrace and takes a step back to look at him. "I know Rachel's not really a model of tact but… what do you have to say about that thing she asked you?"

"What thing?" he says, swallowing hard, as he undeniably reads between the lines and guesses what she's referring to.

"That thing…" she bites her bottom lip, and stares at the ground, visibly feeling as uneasy as he is in that instant, "about us. About where you're going to live?" she adds, her voice barely above a whisper.

He knows that the issue she's just raised goes way beyond the simple, yet already complicated question that they'll have to settle to decide whether they want to be in a relationship and live under the same roof, or just take things casually and both keep their places, at least initially. The fact is, she now has a job in Philadelphia, and a house there. Rachel surely goes to some renowned school, for which Cuddy probably must have fought to get her daughter accepted in. House assumes she's made friends there, and even if she's just five years old and he, better than anyone, knows that kids at such a young age adjust rather fast, or maybe do so because they have no other choices, he doesn't want to be the one to turn their lives upside down. But he lives in Princeton and, maybe it's not too far away from Philadelphia, but it's still not the closest city, either.

Reading his silence as a sign of hesitation, or confusion, Cuddy searches for his hand along his thigh and gently takes it in hers, stroking the length of his fingers with her thumb.

"You don't have to answer that right away," she says. "But, you know… Now that Garrison's dead, there's a job opening in Princeton General and the Board approached me at the funeral so I could-"

"No!" he interrupts forcefully.

Her eyes widen, and she stares at him, a bit shocked by the unwavering determination she's perceived behind his refusal.

"But, how are we gonna make it if-"

"I quit," he deadpans, looking her straight in the eyes.

"What? But how… when? Wilson didn't say you-"

"Wilson doesn't know."

"When?"

"This morning. I handed Foreman my letter of resignation. No one knows yet. Except him."

"But… _Why_?"

He sighs heavily and stares at her with sorry eyes.

"Because… It's Wednesday. And… I didn't know if… I thought… I just needed a change…"

"But I'm here now. It's not too late for you to go see Foreman and explain to him that you've changed your mind. That you want your job back."

"No," he says, his voice much softer, though still quite determined. "I made my decision, Cuddy. I'm done with Diagnostics. This has nothing to do with you. I made up my mind long before you and I getting together was even an option. Chase is ready to take the job. I need to move on. Find something new."

"House, you don't have to. If I get the position at Princeton General-"

"Do you _want_ that job at Princeton General?"

"I… I don't know. It'll just make things easier for us to be together."

"Listen to me," he says, staring at her with gravity. "I wreaked havoc on your life once. I made you do all the sacrifices. But I'm not gonna make you do it again. You love your new job. Don't deny it. I saw you at that conference when I came to Philly to see you the first time. You're happy there. And I'm sure Rachel is happy, too."

"Rachel is only five, she will adjust…"

"Sure, she will. Does that mean she _has to_? I was raised by a marine. I spent my childhood moving from a city to another. From a country to another. I don't want to impose that on Rachel. I don't want to upset the applecart and be that guy..."

"But… What are you gonna do?"

"You need to stop worrying about me. I told you: I can take care of myself. You don't have to fix me. Please, don't fix me…"

She takes a deep breath and silently nods, tears welling up in her eyes.

"I'll start looking for a new job. In Philly. At least, now that we're going to be together, I know where to look, right? So that's a start."

"What about your apartment in Princeton?"

"I don't know. Maybe, I'll keep it, at first. But I'll find a place in Philly. I'll live in a hotel, or somewhere. Doesn't matter as long as I'm close to you, ok?"

"Or… you could live with us," she offers tentatively.

He puffs and smiles fondly at her.

"Why don't we try giving ourselves a little time, first?"

"What do you mean?" she says, worry registering on her face.

"Cuddy, don't get me wrong, I love you. But, I don't want to screw up this time. I want to do it right. We rushed things the first time. We had a bad timing. We put too much pressure on each other. Now, we get to have another chance, and I don't want to ruin it. I won't make the same mistakes, twice."

His words, confident and more mature than ever don't fail to impress her and seduce her, in a way every woman dreams to be seduced by a man. Pursing her lips, she takes a step towards him and slides her hands underneath the hem of his leather jacket to wrap her arms around his waist, as close to his skin as she can get.

"So," she coaxes with a bewitching smile. "You're saying you're going to play hard to get?"

He grins, as the familiar sparkle of desire instantly ignites inside of him.

"Noooo," he says, drinking her beautiful face in. "I'm saying we're going to take things slow."

"How slow?"

"Don't panic. Not virgin-like slow," he says, his smile turning into a full beam. "We're still gonna have sex. Plenty of sex. As much sex as we can get… But-"

"But?"

"I'll take you out on dates, and some nights, I'll drive you back to your house and I'll leave."

"Tssk, no you won't!" she says, dubiously, squinting at him to see if he's serious.

"Oh yes, I will! And then, other nights, you'll invite me over. But, you'll have to seriously improve your cooking skills first."

She puffs and smacks him on the side of his arm.

"My cooking skills are just fine!" she protests, unable to hold back a smile.

"We'll see…" he teases, grinning at her.

"How about yours?"

"Duh. I'm a great cook!" He exclaims, sticking his chest out proudly.

"I'll need proof of that," she provokes.

"I'll give you all the proof you need."

She stares back at him, and raises her chin up, challengingly.

"Will you also cook for my mom when she comes over for dinner?"

"Uhm," he says, rubbing his chin, pretending to give it a thought. "Depends. Will I have to also eat dinner with her afterwards?"

Cuddy rolls her eyes upward and shakes her head, smiling.

"Alright. Maybe," he concedes. "As long as she agrees not to try to convert me to Judaism."

"I can't promise she won't try."

"Do I get to bring Wilson as my religious cheat sheet, then?"

"Fine."

"And what about bowling nights? Or monster trucks?" He asks, raising his eyebrows expectantly.

She doesn't answer. Instead, she bursts into laughter and buries her face in his chest, rubbing her nose between his pecs and tightening her grasp around his waist. Laughing too, he leans down and lays a kiss in her hair, wrapping his arms around her as well and squeezing her tight against him. They don't move for several minutes, simply relishing the warm sensation of their bodies pressed against each other's. After a while, Cuddy tilts her head back and looks up, searching for his gaze. They stare at each other, serenely, without saying a word.

"So, we're really gonna try?" she says, breaking the silence.

He nods solemnly, his eyes locked with hers.

"Yes. We're really gonna try," he repeats, quietly.

* * *

_**A/N**_

_Thank you so much to: housebound, IHeartHouseCuddy, Abby, bere, Huddy4ever, LapizSilkwood, lenasti16, HuddyGirl, JLCH, Alex, freeasabird14, Boo's House, linda12344, OldSFfan, vicpei1, Suzieqlondon, dragonball256, maxima, Paulac45, byte size, alchukina, KiwiClare, oc7ober, and Faby for reading and commenting the previous chapter. You guys rock!_

_Thanks a lot, too, to all of you, silent, invisible ones, who still take the time to click on this story to read it, and even add it in their list of favorites. _

_As announced, the next chapter will be an epilogue, rather than a direct continuation of where we just left House and Cuddy in that chapter. I hope you'll enjoy it. I can already say that this is probably gonna be one of the mushiest, fluffiest chapter I've ever written… Ugh. ;P_

_I think I'll be able to post it sometime next week, rather in the second half than sooner. Meanwhile, I'm hoping to hear lots of you thoughts, guys! _

_Be well and have a nice day ~ maya_


	13. Chapter 13

_Hi guys!_

_So are you ready to put your rainbow-colored swimming suit on and bathe in a sea of fluff, banter, smut, and more fluff?!_

_Coz here's the epilogue._

_All the stops have been pulled. You've been warned. ;D_

_PS: Oh, and also, HAPPY NAME DAY TO Z., the demanding gremlin, Queen of mushy fluff underneath her grumpy shell... ;P_

* * *

**** I Will Always Choose You ****

– **Epilogue –**

THREE YEARS LATER.

…

"She finally went back to sleep," Cuddy says, sliding back under the sheets next to him.

"What's the excuse this time?"

She snuggles up against him and sighs, as she rests her head on his chest.

"It's not an excuse, House. Rachel's having nightmares. You know that situation with my mom is stressing her-"

"Rachel has no idea what's going on with your mom. You're the one being stressed and that's what worries her."

"So you're saying I'm a bad mother because I give my daughter nightmares?" she says, propping herself up to look at him and cupping the side of her head in her hand.

"When did I say that?" he replies, dismayed. "You're a great mom, ok? I'm just saying you've been a little more tense than usual lately and Rachel feels it."

"My mom was just diagnosed with colorectal cancer. Sorry if I'm, indeed, a bit worried-"

"That's what you get for being a pain in the ass," he quips.

She huffs and glares at him.

"Come on," he says more seriously. "Arlene's going to be fine. The cancer was diagnosed at an early stage and she's a rock. You know that. She's going to put the entire oncology wing six feet underground before she even starts showing signs of her illness."

"She's already shown signs of sickness after her first rounds of chemo and-"

He gently motions her to lay her head on his chest again and tightens his grasp around her petite frame as soon as she does.

"No. Chemo is what made her sick, not the cancer. Trust me, I've wiped enough of Wilson's vomit to know that, as ugly as it looks, there _is_ eventually a purpose in all that. A _good_ one."

"Yeah… Wilson, you're right," she murmurs, a shiver running down her spine at the memory of their friend having to fight thymoma's cancer a little over two years ago. "What a horrible scare that was…"

"Cancer was not the scariest part," House reminds her. "The scariest part was that moron deciding it was more heroic to wait for death without a fight."

"That was not scary that was stupid."

"Duh. Epitome of stupid!" He says rolling his eyes, dramatically.

"He's so lucky to have had you, and your stubborn obsession for finding a cure, no matter what it takes."

"I didn't find any cure. I didn't even diagnose him. I just gave him a good kick in the ass so he'd do what any rational person with a functioning brain would have done."

"Still, what I'm saying is, had you not been there for him, Wilson would have refused treatment and-"

"I can be really stubborn and convincing when I want something," he teases, tightening his embrace as his sentence hangs in the air, somehow summarizing their history together to a tee.

"Yes, you can," she purrs, perfectly getting the double-entendre. She nuzzles his chest and pecks him on the nipple before resting her head on his shoulder again.

"House?" she says after a moment of quietness. "You sure you don't mind my mom coming over tomorrow for a few days?"

"Nah. I've restocked with Bourbon, so it's gonna be fine," he jokes. "Besides, after all these years, I think I've learned how to handle the oldest of the Cuddy she-devils."

"Yeah. And she… uh… likes you."

"_Likes_ me? Duh. She totally eats out of my hand…"

"You know," Cuddy says carefully, straightening up again to look him in the eyes, "if it bothers you to drive her to the hospital Wednesday for her chemo treatment, I can arrange my sched-"

"No, you can't. You have your presentation on Wednesday-"

"But I can ask someone to step in…"

"You don't have to. You've been working on that trial for months now. It's _your _presentation. I told you I'd take care of it."

"But," she objects meekly. "It's just that, you know, chemo is so depressing. My mom's gonna sit alone in there and—"

"I told you _I'd take care of it_!" He repeats, more insistently.

"What do you mean?"

"I'll drive her and then… I'll stay," he mumbles, staring at the ceiling.

"Really? You mean, you'd do that?"

"Well, no me, _per se_. Actually, I've asked Wilson to join in so he'll be the one sitting with her the entire time while I'll go check out hot waitresses in the cafeteria."

"Aww, House," she says, knowing that his deflection is only a way to avoid admitting that, even if Wilson agreed to go there with him, he's still going to, indeed, stay at her mother's side during her chemo protocol.

"I know!" he exclaims, deliberately ignoring her reaction. "They'll make the perfect Jewish pair. Arlene is going to insult every nurse and doctor in Yiddish while Wilson is going to nod empathically and ooze care through every pore. And, they'll probably exchange tips about toupees, too. Rumor has it Wilson had this blond, Marylin-like one that he used to wear at nights when he was alone. Your mom might want to borrow it from him…"

Cuddy laughs and, stroking his torso, she curls up in his arms closer and buries her face in his chest

"I love you so much," she whispers, after a while.

"That's coz I'm super loveable," he replies without missing a beat.

"House, I'm serious," she says, looking up. "You make me happy. My life is so much better with you in it."

Tears start welling up in her eyes, as she suddenly feels overwhelmed with all kinds of emotions that cause a lump to get caught in the back of her throat.

"Ok! Time to turn off the light and go to sleep, woman," he exclaims with a gruff, when he notices her eyes glistening. Turning to the other side, he swiftly leans toward the nightstand and switches off the lamp. "You're getting all mushy and it's gonna give you lots of ugly wrinkles."

"I already have lots of ugly wrinkles," she says matter-of-factly.

"Aaaand, delirious!"

She doesn't answer. Instead, she readjusts herself in his arms and sighs contentedly in the dark.

"Good night, House."

"Good night, my ugly, wrinkled, lawfully wedded wife," he says, teasingly.

"My life is much less crappy with you in it, too," he adds after a long while, his voice barely above a whisper.

# # #

"Hello there, Mrs. House," he sing-songs the next morning, grabbing her by the wrist and yanking her in his arms.

Unusually so, he's gotten up before her and he's already showered and dressed while she only now walks out of the bathroom, still naked under her towel.

She freezes, ready to protest that it's not the right moment to mess with her morning routine because she's in a hurry, and she has tons of things to do, and she's going to be late if he doesn't let go of her, and he's going to stress her out because his immature, ill-timed, demanding shenanigans are taking her concentration away, or all of those other things she usually wants to tell him when he does that but, when their eyes meet and she sees the look of pure mischief on his face she finds it impossible for her to resist him. Like every other mornings when he does that.

"You're never going to tire calling me that, are you?"

"Nope!" he says, with a boyish grin. "That's the only, purely selfish pleasure you left me. So you can't blame me for overusing it."

"House," she scolds, rolling her eyes. "We talked about that already. It's just a name! And it was easier for me not to change it."

"Duh. I changed mine."

She puffs and shakes her head, faking to be appalled.

"No, you didn't."

"Yes, I did. If you must know, I told the kids at the hospital to call me Mr. Cuddy..."

[_House had gotten a job in the research team at the Shriners Hospital in Philadelphia three months after they'd decided to give their relationship a real try. During the entire time it had taken him to find exactly what he wanted, and even though Cuddy had offered to help him several times, he'd stubbornly refused that she make calls to recommend him to some of her peers. He wanted to be the one getting that job, on his own and without anyone's help. Shriners Hospital was internationally renowned in pediatrics orthopedics and its research department prided itself on having one of the most top-advanced physicians' team, who were making discoveries in treatment methodologies that improved the lives of children with neuromusculoskeletal conditions daily. Working among children with debilitating conditions affecting their ability to walk or stand was something House had found extremely motivating; more than he'd have even thought he'd be. His own condition and his no-bullshit policy had rapidly earned him the undying affection of the kids there, who often spent lots of their times within the walls of the hospital, in physical therapy or post-surgery recovery. Months after months, they had all come to know and love the old grumpy doctor with a limp for his unique sense of humanity and genuine desire to improve his patients' conditions, without showing unwanted feelings of pity. House had always been great with children and with the ones he treated at Shriners, he had developed an even stronger and more special bond. _

_House had kept his apartment in Princeton for some time although, as soon as he'd found a job, he practically never got there anymore. He and Cuddy hadn't moved in together right away. As he'd promised her, they'd taken their time and it hadn't been until after the first six months that he'd slowly started to move some of his personal belongings in her house. One day, she'd given him a drawer, then an entire side of the dressing. And then, almost without thinking of it, he had done a change of address when he'd renewed his subscriptions so that he'd received his scientific and various reviews directly at her place._ _He spent most of his nights there, if not all. Rachel was positively ecstatic to have him around and, in spite of what House kept saying, grumbling that the little girl was the most annoying, clingy rugrat he'd ever known, he was quite happy to have her, too, to play silly games with and laugh carelessly about stupid things like the eternal child that he was himself. Cuddy and he were not just doing well; they were doing great. Still, after almost a year together, House still couldn't resign himself to sell his apartment in Princeton. Unsurprisingly, but he'd have never admitted it to anyone and even less to her, he'd finally found_ _a good reason to do it only when they'd exceeded the symbolic, dreaded one-year landmark of their Relationship that they never hit the first time they'd been together. Once he'd sold his apartment, he'd had part of his furniture moved in her place, including his grand piano and his guitars collection, and all of his books, plus some other things he cared about like his leather club armchair or his bed, which they'd put in the guest room. Of course, once he'd done that, it was useless to deny that they had very much started living together for real. It had felt odd at first, to both of them. But quite fast, it had become so natural and logical and, simply great, they'd stopped even thinking about it. After nearly two years, Cuddy had become not just essential to him, but simply and undeniably indispensable. His addiction was not hanging threateningly above their head like a Damocles sword anymore and, even if some days, pain was gnawing at him more intensely than he'd wished, he had slowly become less reluctant to confide in her about it, or even seek for his peers' help at Shriners, all perfectly trained and competent physicians who knew just what to do to ease the more intense crisis with some very efficient, drug-free therapies. The quiet sense of happiness House was feeling and the unquestionable awareness he had that Cuddy and Rachel were the ones responsible for it gave him enough strength to overcome his bad days anyway. Falling asleep, with Cuddy's warm body snuggled up against him was a feeling so blissful and unique, he'd have never wanted to jeopardize that for the world. The more the days passed, the more it became evidence…_

_So one evening, exactly two years after that unforgettable day when she had been waiting for him in the park, and as they were quietly watching a movie - he seated in a corner of the couch and she, lying next to him and cuddled up in his arms - he'd suddenly started wiggling and fumbling in the space between them before holding something up in front of her face._

"_Oh look," he'd said almost offhandedly. 'You just dropped something." _

_The object he was holding in his hand was a princess cut diamond ring. Cuddy had gasped and looked up at him, her eyes wide with astonishment._

"_Oh my God, what…" she'd barely managed to articulate, breathless._

_Without a word, he'd stared back at her, the burning intensity of his blue gaze silently asking her the unsaid question that was hanging in the air between them._

"_House, are you… I mean, do you really __**want**__ that?" she'd asked, incredulous._

"_Yes," was his unwavering answer. "Do __**you**__ want that?"_

"_Do I want what?" She'd simpered, the girlie part in her taking over as her eyes begged him to ask the question out loud._

"_To be my wife," he'd said solemnly. "To bear my grumpy, albeit super sexy bod, every day, for the rest of your life? To have hot, wild sex with me, as often as possible, for the rest of mine? To let me sleep by your side, even when we won't have sex? To…"_

"_**Yes**__… Yes, yes, and yes," she'd said wiggling impatiently in his arms to extricate herself from his embrace and climbing on top of him, straddling him and smothering his face with kisses._

"_To let me eat greasy, carbon-fat food in front of the TV every time I please?"_

"_Maybe…" she'd said between kisses._

"_To go to monster truck races with me and Rachel once in a while?"_

"_We'll see…"_

"_To give me massages when my leg hurts?"_

"_Yes."_

"_To let me give __**you**__ massages, even if your leg doesn't hurt…"_

"_Hmmm, yes!"_

"_To watch porns with me?" He'd carried on, chuckling, as she was nibbling his earlobe._

"_Nuh-uh."_

"_To play video games?"_

"_Only if you let me win," she'd bargained, cupping his face in her hands and looking him straight in the eyes lovingly._

"_Alright, I think we have a deal."_ ]

…

"Yep, Mr. Cuddy! They love it, by the way," House says. "I'm thinking about changing the plaque outside my office's door."

"That's bullshit," she says, not buying his bluff.

"Maybe, but what I'm saying is _it's possible_…"

"You're an idiot. Even if I kept my name as a doctor, doesn't mean I'm not very much married to you!"

"Uhm, I don't know," he says with a pout. "What are you ready to do to convince me that you are, right now?"

"Right now? How about _nothing_? I gotta get ready for work. I have the annual budget report meeting at nine this morning…"

"It's not even seven-thirty yet," he counters, groping her butt cheeks and pressing her against him tighter.

She tries to push him away but she doesn't seem very determined as he leans down to her face and kisses her lips softly. She gives in to his kiss and, almost in spite of her, her hands rise to his neck and she combs his hair with her fingers, as she stretches her neck and closes her eyes, moaning voluptuously. He smiles against the velvety pulp of her lips and she must feel it, as proof of his gloating bliss to see her cave, which in turn instantly piques her pride so she swiftly regains her composure and straightens up, pressing her palm on his chest to push him away.

"No, no, no, we don't have time for this. I need to review the charts and prepare my arguments for the requests I want to submit to the board for the clinic. I have to-"

"Booooring!" he drawls, not budging.

"Sorry, this is my job," she says, sounding slightly piqued, even though she knows he's just deliberately pushing her buttons to tease her.

"A very stressing job," he says, matter-of-factly, licking the shell of her ear with the tip of his tongue.

"No. What's stressing me right now is you, getting in my way while I need to get dressed and…"

"Tssk, tssk. What you need, Mrs. House, is to chill out. Me and my magical fingers know exactly how to do that-"

Walking the talk, he slides his hands underneath her towel and starts searching for her slit, caressing her folds and brushing her heat with his fingers, teasing the entry of her core with his middle finger as he expertly backs her against the set of drawers until she is at his complete mercy, cornered and unable to escape.

'Relax," he coaxes between kisses. "I promise it'll only take a minute."

"House, stop!" she protests unconvincingly, as he slips one finger inside of her and, to his greatest pleasure, finds her perfectly wet and warm, her body betraying her own desire in spite of her reluctance to let go.

"You're so damn hot!" he groans against the skin of her neck, nibbling at the tender flesh along her jugular.

"I'm gonna be late. We can't… House!" she yelps and bites her lip to try and muffle the sound that just escaped her mouth as he adds another digit and curls his fingers to reach that spot inside her that he knows will drive her crazy. "Oh God!" she moans, leaning backward and hooking her leg behind his, digging her bare heel in the back of his thigh.

"That's right," he croons, applying pressure on her clit with the pad of his thumb and pumping in and out of her with a steady rhythm that sends her hurtling over the edge in no time. When she starts panting and clutches his forearm, squeezing so tight it sort of almost hurts him, but in a delicious way, he claims her mouth again and kisses her greedily, demandingly and without an ounce of shame or regret. "Yes, just like that," he blows between her lips. "Come on, Cuddy… Come for me…"

She lets out an adorable squeak when she does and her body tenses up as she arches the small of her back and tilts her head back, hitting the wall behind her. Then, almost simultaneously a jolt shakes her body and she jerks forward, curling up in his arms and burying her face in his collarbone, breathing heavily into the soft cotton of his shirt. He slowly slides his fingers out of her and then, securely holds her limp body in his arms.

"See?" he tells her proudly after a while. "I told you it wouldn't take long. You don't even realize how ready you are for sex when you're tense like today. But now, you're just perfectly relaxed and it's all thanks to me."

"You're so full of yourself," she says rolling her eyes, but the smile she sends him is undeniably tender and filled with love and gratitude.

"I think that deserves a little reward," he suggests, taking her hand in his and unabashedly bringing it to the front of his jeans to palm his hard-on.

"House! What part of 'I'm gonna be late if I don't finish getting ready' don't you understand?" She exclaims, promptly removing her hand.

"Hey! But that's not what the marriage vows said," he protests with a flourish. "I promised to give you mind-blowing orgasms and you promised to always reciprocate."

She chuckles and shakes her head 'no.'

"We didn't promise that!"

"Maybe not _that_ exactly but, eventually, isn't that what this 'take care of each other" boils down to?"

She smiles, a fond smile, and pouts empathically at him.

"Aww, _Mr. Cuddy_… I promise I'll take care of you… tonight!"

"That's not fair."

"_Very good_ care of you," she purrs, sending him a mischievous look and licking her bottom lip seductively.

"You remember that Julia agreed to take Rachel with her while my mom will be here after chemo, right?" She adds, more seriously, checking for his reaction cautiously. "She's coming at five to fetch her."

"Oh, my favorite sister-in-law... I can't wait!"

"She won't stay long, I promise…"

"Why? You know I just love spending time with her," House says, sarcastically.

"Oh come on, things are not as awful as they used to be between you two. She's made a lot of efforts to… tolerate you..."

"Of course she has! What other choice did she have? What it comes down to is: I obviously make you happier than she ever thought I would. And, eventually, she can't ignore the fact that we're way cooler as a couple than she and her so-called perfect husband. Proof is, between here and her place, guess where Arlene decided to stay? Ouch, that must hurt…" he says, a bit childishly.

"House," she warns, shaking her head. "Please tell me you'll behave while she's here."

He grunts but finally nods, though reluctantly.

She grabs him by the chin and pecks him playfully on the lip.

"Thank you," she says, with relieved gratitude. "For enduring my sister's presence and... my mother's and… mine…"

"Yeah. There's definitely that, too." He grins.

"And thank you for taking care of me and… err… getting me relaxed for my meeting this morning." She turns around and starts walking away. "I'm gonna get dressed," she says. "Then, I'll go check on Rachel."

"OK. I'll go make breakfast. What do you want?"

"Uh… I don't know. Surprise me?"

"Isn't that what I just did?" he calls after her, as she disappears into the dressing, giggling.

# # #

Several minutes later, Rachel storms in the kitchen and, the moment she sees him, she practically jumps on House's lap, who's sitting at the table eating scrambled eggs, his reading glasses on as he's leafing through a scientific review. Heedful not to crush his bad leg, as she shifts all her weight on one side, she lands on his left thigh, and grabs his face in her hands, squeezing his cheeks between her palms.

"Hey, careful monkey!" he exclaims putting his fork down and repressing a smile, as he tries, but fails, to frown disapprovingly at her.

"House! Can you take me to the mall after school, today? I need new ballet shoes for my dance class," the girl says, totally unaffected by the man's faked reprimand, a huge, mischievous smile on her face.

House takes her hands in his and slowly removes them from his face.

"Nuh-uh," he says, shaking his head. "I'm a man, ergo I don't purchase ballet shoes. Simple as that. So you gotta ask your mom."

"But…" Rachel pouts.

"No buts, kiddo! I know what you're trying to do here. You're gonna drag me there and, _as usual_, I'm gonna end up buying you something that is _not_ ballet shoes, and when she finds out, your mom is going to be pissed that I got you condoms or whatever it is that's totally inappropriate for a girl your age…"

"What's condoms?" The eight-year-old asks curious.

"That's a metaphor," House answers quickly. "And, clearly something you're not supposed to need until another… twenty years or so. Also… don't mention I said that to your mom."

"Will you take me to the mall if I don't?"

"Ooh, blackmail? Have you no shame, minx?" he says, smiling. "Sorry, the answer's still 'no.' You're on your own here. See, I have my own, very personal reason for being home early today."

"Why?"

"Because, you're off to your aunt Julia's tonight and, your mom just made a promise to me… which means, well, I definitely need to be home early."

"What promise?"

"None of your business!"

"Pfff. That's not fair!" The girl fake-protests, crossing her arms over her chest.

"Life sucks, I know. But, I've been dealing with you for nearly half your life, so I get to have the last word. Try dealing with me for half of mine, and then…"

"Tell me about it!" Cuddy interrupts, entering the kitchen, sexy as hell, in an impeccable, dark woman suit.

She finishes clipping an earring and sends House a mischievous grin.

"Watch out Rach! The Führer is here," he jokes, grabbing the girl by the waist and lifting her off of his lap.

"Rachel, sit down; eat your breakfast," Cuddy says, pouring herself a cup of coffee.

She joins them at the table and sits next to House, ravenously peeking at the content of the plate he's prepared for her.

"Fruits 'du moment' carpaccio and honeyed French toasts for Madam," he announces, with a solemn voice.

"Yummy," Cuddy hums appreciatively, picking fruits with her fork. "Come on, Rachel. Finish your cereals," she prompts. "You're gonna be late for school."

"No, she's not. It's barely eight-"

"And school starts at 8:30."

"That's exactly what I'm saying. We still have plenty of time before I drive the little monster there in my shiny convertible."

Cuddy shakes her head, amused, and chuckles lightly.

"You don't even own a convertible."

"Who cares? That's just a way of saying that the coolest kids don't arrive at school 15 minutes early, they arrive right on time, when everybody can see them."

"House, I know that you don't care but, don't teach Rachel that being late is fine," Cuddy warns.

"I'm not teaching her that being late is fine. I'm teaching her how to be cool. There's a difference. Right, chipmunk?" He leans towards the girl and raises his hand up in the air. Rachel instantly high-fives him, a gleeful smile on her face.

Cuddy rolls her eyes disapprovingly but she can't hide the smile that curls her lips upward in that instant.

"I bet your mom used to arrive at school before everybody to sneak in the Library and study before class," House whispers conspiratorially, leaning towards Rachel.

The girl giggles and turns to look at her mother quizzically.

"Hey, I didn't spend all my time in the Library! As a matter of fact, I knew just how to party," Cuddy replies, totally on impulse, more to counter House's banter than to answer her daughter.

"Ooh, mommy. What kind of parties did you go to?" Rachel asks instantly, her eyes widening in excitement.

House bends down to lean his shoulder against Rachel's and turns to face Cuddy with a theatrical, equally excited look on his face, his eyes wide with faked curiosity.

"Ooh, yesss," he banters. "Tell us the story of your partying years…"

Cuddy's mouth drops open and she squares her shoulders, pointing a warning finger at House.

"You…" she says locking eyes with him, and instantly feeling the familiar urge to banter back. "You wait until I…"

"Trust me, I can't wait," House replies, winking very conspicuously and knowingly at her.

Rachel straightens up and stares at the both of them, alternatively, looking a bit confused. Registering the look on her daughter's face, Cuddy promptly gets up and tidies up her skirt.

"Ok! I… uh… need to get going," she says, changing the subject and feeling her cheek getting slightly flushed as she can sense the weight of House's absolutely roguish gaze on her.

Then, turning in Rachel's direction, she smiles fondly at her, in a more motherly, appropriate way.

"Sweetie, have you started packing your things to go to your aunt's tonight?"

"Yes. And, mom, can I bring my tutu to Julia's?"

"Why would you need to-"

"Yes, you can," House interrupts, shaking his head in Cuddy's direction as if to say 'why the hell would you care if she does?'

Cuddy silently nods and sighs, as she understands he is right and whether Rachel takes her tutu or not is clearly not important.

"Oh and, by the way, your daughter needs new ballet shoes," House adds, smiling at her.

"She's _your_ daughter, too, you know?"

"Nuh-uh, I didn't sign any papers, yet!"

"Semantics, House. Our lawyer says we'll get them very soon." Cuddy turns to her daughter and leans down to gently brush a strand of hair away from her forehead.

"Rachel, sweetie. You know... because the adoption is going to be official very soon, well, I think you could call House 'daddy' now… if you want to-"

"Tsss, no she won't!" House exclaims, extravagantly. "All the women in this home have always called me 'House' and I'm just fine with that. Aren't you, Rach?" he asks, turning to the girl who smiles at him with mischief.

"Yes, I'm fine with 'House,' too" Rachel says, giving the man a wink.

** THE END **

* * *

_**A/N**_

_Ok. So this is it! I hope you liked this mushy conclusion to an overall bumpy and angsty story…_

_Also, as I kinda have to deal with statistics sometimes for what I do, let me share these numbers with you…_

_This story has been visited by 18,751 persons over the previous twelve chapters. From 63 different countries, in the five continents! And, well, I didn't get to hear from all of you, but I just want to say that I'm genuinely humbled and fascinated when I think that somewhere, on the other side of the world, or just in the house next door maybe (although it's quite unlikely, ugh! ;P) someone has clicked on this story and read parts, or whole of it…_

_I cannot be thankful enough for you all. _

_So THANK YOU. _

…

_Also, I cannot end this story without giving a special, very heartfelt thank you to all of you who have commented and reviewed this story: LapizSilkwood, Lenasti16, JLCH, OldSFfan, IHeartHouseCuddy, freeasabird14, Alex, Abby, paulac45, HuddyGirl, Boo's House, jaybe61, vicpei1, oc7ober, linda12344, Huddy4ever, Faby, Suzieqlondon, Raquel9, MystryGab, RochelleRene, Little Greg, housebound, reader, precioussoulandsweetcheeksiin1, KiwiClare, bebehuddy, bere, bladesmum, ikissedthelaurie, , limptulip, hell yeah, huddy92, southpaw2, Ocean'sWriting, Fran, Paula, Alica1990, piena, jayfukae, Mrs. Jakubowicz, PrincetonBlues, huddy-marie, goran, Asia, Lize, dragonball256, maxima, byte size, alchukina, Do YOU care, last read, Yo, and all the guests that didn't leave a name_

…

_I hope you'll let me know what your thoughts are on this last chapter…_

_I have several other stories in progress *cough* I know *cough* so there's more than a good chance that you'll hear from me again. Or maybe, who knows, my muse will get inspired by some new crazy idea and I will write a new one…_

_Until then, be well and have fun! ~ maya_


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